It S Time To Tell

113537

GEORGE P. LEBRUN

If s Time To Tell

as told to
EDWARD D. RADIN

William Morrow and Company

New York

1962

Copyright 1962 by William Morrow and Company, Inc. All
rights reserved. Published simultaneously in the Dominion of
Canada by George J. McLeod Limited, Toronto. Printed in the
United States of America. Library of Congress Catalog Card
Number 62-15753.

To my wife Josephine

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER Two

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER Six

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It Began with Murder
Two Faces of Justice
In Old New York
Business as Usual
Retribution

"There Oughta Be a Law"
The Lonely Crowd
Mafia Vendetta
Coroners for Sale
The Untold Story
Little Napoleon
The Fresh Breeze
The Singed Butterfly
Politics la Carte

1 1
22
47
70
89
1 02

1 30
144
162
179
191

227

244

It's Time To Tell

CHAPTER ONE

It Began with Murder

IT BEGAN WITH MURDER.

The address was a rooming house in the raucous Ten-
derloin. When Coroner Antonio Zucca and I arrived,
the body of a woman was sprawled on top of a bed in a
sparsely furnished room. A burly man was examining a
revolver with what appeared to be clinical interest. I
thought he was a detective until a uniformed patrolman
explained that the man and the dead woman had rented
the room for a daytime tryst. Shortly after they had gone
to bed, a second woman rushed in, fired two shots di-
rectly into the head of the other, and then fled, dropping
the weapon on the floor. As the officer told us this story,
the man continued his calm, careful examination of the
pistol.

"Who did the shooting?" I asked. The man spoke up
for the first time. "My wife," he said. He glanced down
at the gun again. "You know, I thought she used the one

11

12 IT'S TIME To TELL

I had in my dresser," he remarked, and a note of worry
seemed to creep into his voice as he added, "It looks like
mine, but it isn't."

My career as secretary to the coroner had started; this
was my first case on my first day in office. I had managed
Zucca's recent election campaign and he became the first
Italian to be voted into an important public office in New
York City. I am o French descent, and when Zucca ap-
pointed me official secretary, newspaper reporters re-
ferred to us as the Foreign Legion of the coroner's office.
Even though my appointment by Zucca had been a per-
sonal one and not dictated by the Tammany political
machine, I knew I could be turned out of office at the
next election and looked upon my position as a temporary
one. I was unduly pessimistic. It wasn't until thirty-six
years later, after I had reached the mandatory age limit,
that I reluctantly left the office.

When Zucca, a Democrat, was not re-elected, his suc-
cessor, Dr. Gustave Scholer, a Republican, asked me to
stay on. Later my post was removed from the political
spoils system and was transferred to civil service.

During my thirty-six years in office I took part in the
investigations of over one hundred thousand accidental,
suicidal and suspicious deaths, including many of New
York's best known murders. Crooked politics, intrigues
and bribes were all part of the setup, and I observed at
first hand the vicious alliance of unscrupulous politicians
with rapacious businessmen who teamed up to interfere
with justice and free the guilty and, on rare occasions,
even convict the innocent.

I saw a few coroners who were for sale to the highest
bidder and watched persons of wealth or importance exert

It Began with Murder 13

all kinds of pressure to avoid airing their dirty linens in
public. I could have retired wealthy on the bribes offered
me. Over the years I fought many varied vested interests
as I sought to bring about needed reforms to cut down
upon wholly unnecessary deaths. I served under four
different boards of coroners, and when that office was
abolished in 1918, I became secretary of the succeeding
medical examiner's office, carrying on the same work un-
til age, not interest, forced me to retire.

I first entered office with Coroner Zucca on January i,
1898. New Yorkers had more than the usual reason for
celebrating the arrival of this particular New Year. At
the stroke of midnight, Greater New York had come into
being; the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island
had united with Manhattan to form one city.

My own celebration of the event had to be postponed*
As church bells tolled the hour and huge bonfires were
set ablaze on the streets, I helped Zucca and the other
three newly elected Manhattan coroners take physical pos-
session of the coroner's office. Under the new city charter
going into effect at midnight, the new officials were
carrying the title of borough coroners. The retiring
group had the title of county coroners. We had received
a report that these retiring coroners would try a coup
and claim they still were in office because no succeeding
county coroners had been elected. They did put in an
appearance a short time later and demanded that we
leave. When the newly elected officials refused, the old
coroners directed a police officer on duty in the building
to eject us. The farce came to an end when the patrolman
suggested instead that they go home and sleep it off. They

14 IT'S TIME To TELL

finally left after vowing to take us to court; they did and
lost.

None o the old coroners had run for re-election because
the office no longer would be as lucrative. Up to then
coroners had operated on a fee basis, receiving payment
for each inquest held. Under the new charter, the coro-
ners were being placed on a yearly salary, fixed at six
thousand dollars. New Yorkers had discovered the pre-
vious year just how remunerative the fee system had been
when one of the Brooklyn coroners was arrested for de-
veloping a method for increasing the frequency of his
fees; the word "racket" was not in use then. He had been
called out one day when the body of a floater was
found in the East River. He went to the scene, held an
inquest at the spot, and paid the police officer a few dol-
lars to move the body to a new location. During the next
few weeks there was a sharp increase in the number of
bodies found on the Brooklyn side of the river. The rise
was so staggering that an investigation was ordered, par-
ticularly when it was discovered that none of the bodies
had turned up at the morgue for autopsies. The greedy
coroner had had the same body dragged from spot to spot
along the riverfront and in a short space of time had col-
lected some ten thousand dollars in fees from one be-
draggled corpse.

The coroner's office is one of the oldest in existence in
the English-speaking world, and it is the oldest continuing
office in this country, dating back to very early Colonial
days. When William Penn, in 1683, arrived at what is
now Philadelphia to govern the young colony, one of his
first official acts was to appoint a coroner's court. That
same year a coroner's jury investigated the death of a man
named Benjamin Acrod and returned with a verdict that

It Began with Murder 15

he had "killed himself with drink/' The penalty for such
an offense was the reverting of all his property to the rep-
resentative of the Crown. Penn was a humane person
and he refused his claim in favor of Acrod's heirs.

It was the duty of coroners in New York City to in-
quire into any sudden, accidental or unnatural death. As
secretary to the coroner, it was my job to accompany him
to the scene, take notes and participate in the investiga-
tion. I also had to summon a coroner's jury and assist the
coroner in court when he was holding an inquest. For
many years the coroner's court and his private office were
located on the first floor of the old Criminal Courts Build-
ing. Our corridor was used in bringing prisoners to and
from Tombs Prison, which was across the street. An en-
closed private bridge led from our building across Frank-
lin Street directly into the Tombs. It was built after
mobs attacked guards escorting prisoners through the
streets and released the men in custody. The structure
became world-famous as the "Bridge of Sighs/'

By law, coroners had to hold inquests in all cases ex-
cept for natural deaths. Lawyers were present by courtesy,
but not by right. Few coroners were lawyers, and most
of them had little if any conception of legal proceedings.
The hearings were informal, witnesses were allowed to
ramble; the main purpose was to get information so that
a jury could get enough facts to reach an opinion. It
became known as the poor man's court. Coroners had
the power to make arrests and they could sit as a com-
mitting magistrate in cases within their jurisdiction,
setting bail for a prisoner. Discharge by a coroner's jury
did not always mean the end of a case. A district attorney
could order the rearrest of a prisoner and hold him for
grand jury action. The prosecutor or one of his assistants

16 IT'S TIME To TELL

would help the coroner question witnesses in homicides.

I learned early the amazing variety of cases that came
within the province of the coroner's office. On that same
first day we also were called out to investigate the death
of a pedestrian he had been run down by a bicyclist.
The standard two-wheel bicycle, as we know it now,
was just coming into popularity then, and this was the
first case in the city of a pedestrian being killed in such
an accident. Although witnesses agreed that the dead man
had run into the path of the bicycle and had struck his
head on the curb when he fell, it was the custom to arrest
any owner of a vehicle involved in an accident and to
release him on nominal bail until the inquest. Inquests
were held weekly.

The bicyclist was cleared later by a coroner's jury and
released. The trysting husband came to see me several
days after the shooting, said he was a gambler who re-
cently had come from Chicago to investigate the possi-
bilities of opening a place in the Tenderloin. He was
arranging for the surrender of his wife, but since he was
a stranger he asked if I could recommend a lawyer. I
told him we could not do that in our office. For a stran-
ger, it did not take him long to learn his way. He hired
the notorious firm of Howe and Hummel, and when his
wife later was placed on trial, a sympathetic jury convicted
her of manslaughter and she received a light sentence.

The coroner's court offered far better entertainment
than could be seen on any stage. I knew personally some
of the great stars of the theater, but few performances
by actors could match the spontaneous dramas that
rubbed the emotions raw, or the unconscious bits of
comedy that went on week after week in our court.

It Began with Murder 17

Even deaths from natural causes sometimes brought
surprises. For over twenty-five years a man named Mur-
ray Hall maintained an employment office on lower Sixth
Avenue. He lived with a niece in an apartment behind
the agency. He was well known in the neighborhood,
was an active member of his local Democratic club, and
his favorite recreation was visiting the clubhouse and
spending the evening discussing politics and other mat-
ters with members. He was about six feet tall and
weighed 160 pounds. Hall was considered a "regular fel-
low" by his friends.

One morning the niece found him dead in bed, the
victim of a heart attack. Since there was nothing sus-
picious about his death, Zucca did not go to the scene,
but the coroner's physician did make a routine examina-
tion at the house.

The doctor reported that Hall had died of a heart
attack and then added, "I think you should know that
Hall was a woman."

Because of the unusual circumstances, Zucca decided
to hold an inquest. Throughout the hearing the niece
always referred to Murray Hall as her uncle. Each time
she did, Zucca interrupted to say, "Your aunt/ 1 and the
girl just as promptly retorted, "My uncle, you mean."
She refused to accept the doctor's report that Murray
Hall had been a woman, and we were unable to deter-
mine if she really did not know of the masquerade.

The coroner's jury found itself troubled with a prob-
lem in semantics and solved it with this verdict:

"We find that Murray Hall came to his death by na-
tural causes. He was a lady."

One of the most pathetic incidents occurred when a

i8 IT'S TIME To TELL

ten-year-old girl, the only witness to an ax murder, was
called to the stand* Coroners disliked bringing children
into the court unless it was absolutely necessary, but
there was no choice in this instance. The child was ex-
ceptionally bright and pretty with dark brown wavy
hair.

Spectators in the courtroom let out a gasp when the
girl began her story by saying, "I hate to talk against my
papa, but he killed my mama. Papa wasn't always bad,"
she hurriedly offered in his defense. "When he was work-
ing and wasn't drinking he used to bring ice in the morn-
ing, and used to chop the wood and bring it up for Mama
and me. But sometimes before this last time I have seen
him when he was ugly and drinking and not working and
hit Mama, but not with an ax. Mama was proud and
told me never to say a word about Papa hitting her to
anybody, and Mama stood it a great many times, but
Papa would promise to be good and then would break
his promise.

"You see it was this way. Papa had not been working
for two days and he was ugly and cross and after he
had had his lunch and a pint of beer he went into the
bedroom to sleep. When Mama was busy getting supper
he called her. She told me to tell Papa she was getting
supper for our boarder. He jumped out of bed and put
on his trousers but not shoes, and said he would show
Mama whether or not she would come when he called
her.

"I followed him into the kitchen, and he picked up a
bottle from the table and was going to hit Mama with it,
but I grabbed the bottle and then took all the other bot-
tles and hid them. He hunted around the room and
found the ax which Mama used for cutting kindling wood,

It Began with Murder 19

and then he hit her on this side of the face [she indicated
the left side of her face to the jury], then on top of the
head, and Mama called my name and fell on her face. I
ran into the hall screaming and our neighbor came in
and put a pillow under Mama's head, and washed off the
blood and said, 'She's still breathing/ And then the
policeman came, and they sent for an ambulance. Mama
never spoke another word to anybody and she died with-
out knowing me again."

The girl then slipped off the witness stand, ran across
the room to where her father was seated between two
guards, threw her arms around him and sent shivers
through all of us when she cried out, "Papa, I don't want
you to die; I love you."

I hadn't been with the coroner's office long when I
began to appreciate the value of inquests, particularly
in accidental deaths. Many buildings then were not
equipped with central heating, particularly the lower-
priced rooming houses. Whenever there was a cold spell
there was a sharp rise in deaths from gas asphyxia. Many
of these roomers, whether they had kitchen privileges
or not, would buy small hot-plate stoves, attach them to
the gas jets in their rooms, and keep them burning all
night during cold weather. Escaping gas would kill them,
and now and then explosions would wreck buildings
when somebody would smell the fumes and light a match.

At first we thought these deaths were due to faulty
connections of the hose to the jet and the burner, and
newspapers printed our warning to make certain that the
hoses fitted tightly. But the death toll continued to climb
that winter with more than eight hundred, many of them
in Brooklyn.

5> IT'S TIME To TELL

Coroner Scholar and I went out on some of these calls
and we noticed that the hoses attached to the stoves
seemed to be thin, not as heavy as the rubber tubing that
was attached to gas heaters in our homes. Tests were made
on these hoses and it was found that they were not air-
tight, that gas vapors could seep through the porous
construction. The facts were presented at an inquest,
and the jury recommended the enactment of a local ordi-
nance establishing minimum standards of safety for gas
hose. The board of aldermen quickly passed such a law,
and police were sent out to stores to confiscate all unsafe
hose. People who had bought the cheap hose were alerted
to the danger, and deaths from this type of accidental gas
poisoning showed a prompt decline.

During the construction of the first subway tunnels
under the East River to Brooklyn, many of the sandhogs
were being killed on the job. Since it is dangerous work,
their deaths were being attributed to the "bends," an
occupational hazard caused by passing too quickly into
normal air from the compressed air used in the caissons.
Autopsy surgeons, though, found that the bends was
not the sole cause of death for some of the victims, that
there were additional contributing causes such as tubercu-
losis or other organic diseases. These victims were
physically ill men who were really killing themselves by
undertaking the work they were doing; they simply did
not have the physical stamina for withstanding the high
air pressures necessary in the caissons.

An inquest disclosed that the construction company
was so anxious for manpower that it was hiring anyone
who applied for a job. No physical examinations were
made of the men, and they were sent right down to

It Began with Murder 2 1

the caissons as soon as they were hired. The pay was high
for that period, ten dollars a day, and men anxious to
provide well for their families were snapping at the lure.
The jury followed the advice of the coroner and in its
verdict suggested that any man hired for sand-hog work
pass a thorough medical examination. A copy was sent to
the contracting firm and, to its credit, it promptly placed a
physician on the job site to examine all applicants. There
was a satisfactory decrease in the number of sand hogs
being killed on that construction job, and, as a further
result, a law was passed making such examinations man-
datory.

While these are examples of how properly conducted
inquests can be put to good purposes, I also saw, at the
close of my first year with the coroner's office, the other
side of the coin, where an inquest was misused to build
up public opinion against a suspect in one of the most
celebrated murder cases of the Gay Nineties. It was a
flagrant abuse of the coroner's court, and an innocent
man was almost electrocuted. Many people today, un-
aware of the actual facts, still believe this man was guilty.
I have read many accounts of this case in various books
and publications, but none has contained any of the in-
formation about what took place in our office and later in
the coroner's court.

But to counterbalance it, this soon was followed by
another case in which our office may very well have pre-
vented a grave miscarriage of justice. I am now going to
give you the full facts, including information never be-
fore published, on both of these cases.

CHAPTER TWO

Two Faces of Justice

I HAD LOOKED FOR-

ward to spending a quiet day in the office on December
28, 1898. Coroner Zucca was off duty and it was a good
opportunity for me to catch up on paper work. It was a
gray, overcast morning, gaslights were lit, and the streets
were still filled with snow from a pre-Christmas storm,
making walking treacherous. I had just settled down in
my office when Coroner Edward Hart poked his head
in the door and asked that I work with him.

Because the other official secretaries to the coroner
were political appointees who often had chores to per-
form for their district leaders, I frequently was called
upon to serve all four coroners. Reporters were so ac-
customed to see me working with the different officials
that they referred to me in print as secretary to the
"board of coroners/' Technically there was no such office,
but in reality I was serving that function.

22

Two Faces of Justice 2%

It was late morning when we received a report that
Mrs. Katherine Adams of 61 West Eighty-sixth Street
had been poisoned. While Coroner Hart and I were
struggling into our overshoes, Assistant District Attorney
John J. Mclntyre hurried into the office with Harry S.
Cornish, physical director of the Knickerbocker Athletic
Club, who, he said, had unwittingly given the poison to
Mrs. Adams. Since it was a police matter, we were joined
by George McClusky, head of the detective division.

Cornish was a tall, well-built man, with the appearance
of an athlete who kept himself in trim. He boarded at the
Adams home, having moved there earlier that year, and
said he was a friend of Mrs. Adams and her daughter,
Mrs. Laura Rogers, who was separated from her hus-
band and living with her mother. The rest of the house-
hold included an elderly woman, distantly related, and the
servants. This is the verbatim statement Cornish made
in the coroner's office to us. He was allowed to tell his
story without interruptions, and spoke slowly, selecting
his words with care:

"This morning Mrs. Adams awakened and complained
of a severe headache. She hunted around the house for
a remedy and could find nothing. I then recalled that on
Christmas Eve I had received through the mail a small
bottle of Bromo Seltzer, contained in a rather expensive
and elaborately worked filigree silver case, a typical Christ-
mas present.

"I hadn't the faintest idea who had sent it since there
was no accompanying card. As a matter of fact, I sus-
pected it might be an expensive joke on me from one of
the men at the club sending me a hang-over remedy, you
see. I had shown it to Mrs. Adams when I first brought it

24 IT'S TIME To TELL

home, and she had admired the artistic quality of the fili-
gree work. She agreed when I suggested that she try a glass
of it for her headache. So I poured out a teaspoonful
into a glass of water, stirred it up, and handed it to her
while it was still effervescing.

"She drank the greater part of it and then placed the
glass on the table, remarking suddenly that it had a
strange taste. I picked up the glass and tasted what re-
mained, noticing that it had a strong odor. Hardly had
I put the glass back on the table and before I could say
anything, Mrs. Adams screamed, fell to the floor and
rolled around in agony, beating her hands against the
rug."

Cornish paused at this point to rub his hand across his
forehead. He then continued.

"Mrs. Rogers and I ran to her, lifted her from the floor
to a couch. Then we sent a maid running for the nearest
doctor. By the time he came, and that was very soon, she
was in a coma. He examined her for an instant, saw that
her condition was hopeless and asked for the Bromo
Seltzer glass. Dipping his finger into the remaining liquid,
he tasted it. It was only a short time ago since I had taken
a sip of the liquid and I was feeling ill myself. After this
sampling the physician declared the liquid contained cya-
nide and that, unquestionably, Mrs. Adams had been
poisoned. And almost as he finished speaking she died.
That is exactly what happened this morning."

Chief McClusky pointed out to Cornish that the poison
seemed to have been intended for him. Coroner Hart
asked him if he could think of anyone who would want
to kill him.

Cornish shook his head. "I didn't think I had any

Two Faces of Justice 25

enemies. Certainly none who would want to murder me.
It is sort of hard to imagine such a thing. It is all so
sudden."

Pressed further as to whether he had trouble with any-
body, he stated he had difficulties with Roland Molineux
at the Knickerbocker Club. He again spoke slowly and
carefully as he discussed the incident:

"Well, we quarreled there one day over some accusa-
tions I had made against him to the board of governors.
He came back with some countercharges against me. I
was pretty mad because, after all, he was one of the club
governors and a member of the board. There was an
investigation of my charges and his countercharges and
then, as I might have expected, the board decided that I
should make a written apology to Molineaux for what
I had said. That should have ended the matter but, ap-
parently, he was still angry, for even after I sent him the
apology he resigned and joined the New York Athletic
Club/'

With the mention of Molineux's name it became evi-
dent why Mclntyre had suggested that the head of the
detective bureau be brought into the case. The Molineux
family was wealthy and socially prominent. Roland's fa-
ther was General Edward L. Molineux, head of C.T.
Reynolds, one of the largest manufacturers of dyes in
the country, and Roland Molineux was successful in his
own right. He had studied chemistry and while still a
young man became superintendent of a large chemical
firm in Newark, New Jersey, that made dry colors. He
also performed in shows as a star gymnast, a popular
amateur sport at that time.

Just the previous month, on November 29, Molineux

26 IT'S TIME To TELL

had married Blanche Cheseborough, a vivacious brunette,
who was soloist at a fashionable church.

Questioned further, Cornish said the package had been
mailed to him at the Knickerbocker Club. There had
been a gift envelope inside, but no card was enclosed. He
said he did not recognize the handwriting of the sender
but had saved the wrapping paper. The silver holder and
the blue bottle were in a Tiffany box. Although Cornish
did not accuse Molineux, he offered no other name.

Coroner Hart and I went to the house where we inter-
viewed Mrs. Rogers. Her story of her mother's death was
similar to the statement given to us by Cornish. She said
that when he went to his room to get the gift bottle, he
first gave it to her, but when she had difficulty breaking
the paraffin seal, he took over, opened the bottle, and
poured the powder into a spoon. I took possession of the
bottle, and when I removed the cap there was a noticeably
strong odor* The coroner's physician later reported that
the bottle was loaded with cyanide crystals.

The inquest was delayed while police began an investi-
gation. The delay was somewhat unusual because one of
the purposes in holding an early inquest was to get state-
ments from witnesses under oath while all the facts still
were fresh in their minds. Police, of course, had the power
to make an arrest at any time regardless of an inquest,
and a district attorney was not bound by the verdict of
a coroner's jury. Any time he felt he had a case against a
suspect he could present his information directly to a
grand jury and seek an indictment. On the surface the
delay seemed meaningless and unimportant.

Detectives learned that Tiffany had not sold the silver
filigree holder. They were able through a hallmark on

Two Faces of Justice 27

the piece to trace it to the manufacturer, and his records
showed that it had been shipped to a jewelry store in
Newark not far from the factory where Molineux was
employed. A clerk recalled selling the holder on Decem-
ber 21 to a tall man who had a red beard and spoke in a
deep gruff voice. The description of the buyer did not
match Molineux, and when the clerk later saw the chemist
he said he was not the man who had purchased the silver
holder.

Reporters soon had the story, and the Molineux name
made it important news. They learned that Molineux
and Cornish had first quarreled in April, 1897, over an
amateur circus the club was staging. Some months later
Cornish had written a letter to an athlete in which he
had made disparaging remarks about the director of an-
other organization on interclub matters. Molineux was
shown the letter and he asked the board of governors to
dismiss Cornish for this breach of manners. The board
apologized to the other man involved but kept Cornish
on. Shortly after that, club members heard Cornish taunt
Molineux and call him a vile name, but the chemist
laughed and walked away. The final break came when
Cornish wrote letters to members of other clubs in which
he derided Molineux's athletic ability and character. He
told the house committee chairman that Molineux was
selling rum and was associated with a house of prostitu-
tion. This seemed to be the final straw for Molineux,
who informed the secretary of the club that Cornish had
to be discharged or he would resign. When nothing was
done, Molineaux did resign in December, 1897, a full
year before Cornish received the blue bottle in the mail.
Members of the club said that while Cornish was ixnpul-

28 IT'S TIME To TELL

sive, liked to have his own way and was often tactless,
he was a good coach and they did not want to lose him.

I would like to point out that the story Cornish told
at the coroner's office was at variance with this informa-
tion.

Further sensations for newspaper readers soon were
provided when police revealed they also were investigat-
ing the recent death of Henry C. Barnet, a broker, and
a close friend of Molineux. They suspected that he had
also died of poisoning. Both men were linked to Blanche
Cheseborough. Molineux had met her in the summer of
1897 on a cruise in Maine. He had proposed to her on
Thanksgiving Day that year, but she had not accepted.
Later that fall he had introduced her to Barnet and after
that both men had begun taking her out.

She finally ceased seeing Barnet and then in early Oc-
tober, 1898, accepted Molineux's renewed proposal. Bar-
net, who had continued living at the Knickerbocker Club
after his friend had moved out, became ill on October 30,
and the club doctor had thought he exhibited the symp-
toms of diphtheria. Barnet had said he felt ill after taking
a dose of Kutnow powders that had come in the mail. The
doctor had had the powders analyzed and they had been
found to contain cyanide of mercury. Barnet had refused
to discuss it. He appeared to be recovering when he died
suddenly on November 10, nineteen days before the mar-
riage of Blanche Cheseborough and Molineux. In signing
the death certificate, the doctor attributed it to heart
failure caused by diphtheria.

Police also learned that some months earlier a man
had rented a letter box in a store under the name of H.
C. Barnet and among the mail had received various

Two Faces of Justice 29

samples of patent medicines. The storekeeper identified
Molineux as the box holder. Captain McClusky told re-
porters, "The same mind sent both poisons."

No arrest had been made by the time the delayed in-
quest opened on February 9, 1899. It was no secret that
Molineux was the chief suspect. He was under subpoena
and he came accompanied by a lawyer. Assistant District
Attorney Mclntyre appeared for his office, and Coroner
Hart presided. The coroner was typical of many of those
who held the office. He was an amiable man, personally
honest and a steadfast machine politician. He knew little
about the functions of the coroner's court or of law.

Molineux was called to the stand, and the questions
asked by Mclntyre established thoroughly that he and
Cornish had quarreled and that he had sought to have the
other discharged. The prosecutor also brought out infor-
mation to the jury that Molineux was a chemist, that he
had his own private laboratory at the factory, that it was
possible for him to manufacture poisons from the raw
materials available in the factory, and that the plant was
located near the jewelry store where the silver filigree
holder was bought. With these and similarly selected
questions, Mclntyre ended his examination. When Mo-
lineux's lawyer arose to question his client, Mclntyre
objected and told Coroner Hart that it was his right to
prevent any cross-examination. The coroner did have this
power. He also had the right, though Mclntyre did not
mention it, of preventing the district attorney from asking
any questions. Given the "law" by Mclntyre, Hart sus-
tained the objection.

The ruling completely negated the very reason for hold-
ing an inquest, which was to obtain all the information.

go IT'S TIME To TELL

By limiting the questioning to just one side, which could
and did ask questions designed not to bring out all the
facts but to give an impression, the inquest was turned
into a farce under the cloak of legality.

From that point on, Mclntyre completely dominated
the proceedings. Neither the coroner's jury nor the re-
porters present knew that he and Cornish were close per-
sonal friends, that after Mrs. Adams died Cornish had
not notified police but had gone all the way downtown to
see his friend, and that we were not notified of the death
until Mclntyre and Cornish were getting ready to enter
our office.

When Cornish took the stand, he told of receiving the
package in the mail, and once again his quarrels with
Molineux were emphasized. He added gratuitously that
he bore Molineux no ill will, which hardly explained his
active letter writing. Seven experts hired by the district
attorney's office took the stand and all testified that it was
Molineux's handwriting on the wrapper Cornish had
saved.

Although the inquest had been called specifically to
inquire into the death of Mrs. Adams, Mclntyre not only
broadened it to include Barnet, but, in fact, spent more
time on Barnet's death than on the other. Leaving no
doubt that Barnet had been murdered, he soon supplied
black headlines for the press by inferring that it was the
rivalry over the favor of Blanche Cheseborough that had
led Molineux to murder his friend. He dragged her
through the mire by inferring that she had been Barnet 's
mistress and that Molineux got his revenge.

When she took the stand and denied that she had ever

Two Faces of Justice 3 1

had intimate relations with Barnet, a letter she had writ-
ten to him, found in his desk, was read to the jury:

"I am distressed to learn of your illness. I arrived
home Saturday and am so exceedingly sorry to know that
you have been indisposed. Won't you let me know when
you are able to be about? I want so much to see you. Is
it that you do not believe me? If you would but let me
prove to you my sincerity. Do not be cross any more. And
accept, I pray you, my very best wishes. Yours, Blanche/'

While the letter may sound somewhat innocuous to
the casual reader, it was read with voice inflections that
gave an impression that it was an ardent demand for an
instant assignation.

The inquest stretched out from February ninth to the
twenty-seventh, with each day supplying fresh sensations,
and the factual accounts of the one-sided material pre-
sented in court built up an impression of Molineux as a
Borgia-like creature who went about poisoning people he
disliked. Molineux' s lawyer was firmly gagged during
the entire time, not allowed to ask any witness a single
question. The climax came when Mclntyre even took
over the coroner's role and charged the jury. It was a
typical prosecutor's demand for a guilty verdict, but in-
stead of asking that they find Molineux guilty, he asked
them to consider from the evidence whether Molineux
should be held for the grand jury. It was not surprising
that the coroner's jury returned with a verdict that "The
death of Katherine Adams was caused by cyanide poison-
ing, administered to her by Harry Cornish, said poison
having been sent through the United States mail to Harry
Cornish by Roland Molineux/'

With the recommendation by the coroner's jury,

32 IT'S TIME To TELL

Molineux was quickly indicted and sent to the Tombs
to await trial. It was only after the inquest that somebody
in the district attorney's office may have realized that the
only fact on record about Barnet's death was a certificate
signed by a reputable physician that he had died 6f
natural causes. The following day his body was exhumed,
and this was followed by more headlines when the prose-
cutor's office announced that a toxicologist had found
cyanide in his body.

Mrs. Adams had died on December 28. The investiga-
tion went on for over a month with all information re-
leased to reporters pointing toward Molineux. The coro-
ner's court inquest lasted almost as long with only infor-
mation pointing to Molineux being presented. There is
little doubt that Molineux was thoroughly tried in the
press, and public opinion had convicted him before he
even was indicted and placed on trial. The result of his
trial was a foregone conclusion. He was found guilty and
sentenced to die in the electric chair.

Two episodes in his trial deserve mention. The number
of handwriting experts had risen from seven at the in-
quest to fourteen at the trial. The quantity may have been
an indication of what the prosecutor thought about the
quality. The scientific study of handwriting was in its
infancy then, and while there were many self-styled ex-
perts, there were few really qualified men. Most of the
state's experts did not even attempt to offer any scientific
reasons for their opinion that Molineux had addressed
the package to Cornish. They simply said it looked like
his handwriting. The defense, on the other hand, had
employed D. N. Carvalho, one of the few court-recognized
experts in the field. He demonstrated that the curves and

Two Faces of Justice 33

angles of the writing on the package were completely
dissimilar to Molineux's handwriting and testified
flatly that Molineux had not written the address. The jury
may have been impressed by the quantity.

District Attorney Asa Bird Gardiner headed the prose-
cution. His sole claim to fame was the classic remark he
made the night Tammany Hall was voted back into power
and swept him into office: "To hell with reform." The
character of the prosecution perhaps can be best summed
up by one of the closing remarks by the prosecutor.
Molineux had been indicted only for the murder of Mrs.
Adams, although the court, over the objections of the
defense, allowed testimony to be brought in about Barnet.
The motive for the attempted murder of Cornish that
backfired into the death of Mrs. Adams, if Molineux did
it, obviously was the long enmity between the two men.
Witness after witness told of their quarrels. All of these
revolved about Knickerbocker Club affairs only. They
began before Molineux had met Blanche Cheseborough,
and she certainly was no part of their quarrels. Yet in his
summation the prosecutor pointed to Blanche Chese-
borough Molineux who sat beside her husband and
shouted dramatically, "There sits the motive!"

Molineux was in the death house for twenty months
while his case was on appeal. In a unanimous decision, the
court of appeals reversed the conviction and sharply
criticized the many legal errors, including the admission
of any testimony about the death of Barnet. The court also
had equally caustic things to say about the quality of the
testimony of the state's handwriting experts.

It was almost four years since the death of Mrs. Adams
when Molineux's second trial finally ended. The case

34 IT'S TIME To TELL

this time was presented by a new district attorney who
had come into office, William Travers Jerome, still recog-
nized as one of the most honest and forthright prosecutors
in the city's history. The case was presented fairly; the
defense was virtually the same, a complete denial. Moli-
neux was acquitted.

The long years he had spent in jail had taken their toll.
He was a broken and bitter man. His wife obtained a di-
vorce the following year and later married the lawyer
who had represented her. Molineux turned to writing
articles and plays about the unfortunate lot of convicts,
and Belasco produced one of his plays, The Man Inside.
It closed after only a few performances. Molineux mar-
ried his secretary on November 7, 1913, and had a child,
but within two years his mind was broken and he was
committed to an institution. He died there on November

The acquittal of Molineux still leaves open two ques-
tions.

What about the death of Barnet? Frankly, I believe he
died of natural causes. Cyanide is one of the swiftest-acting
poisons known. The collapse of Mrs. Adams within mo-
ments of drinking the poison is a typical cyanide death.
And even a very small dosage is usually fatal. If Barnet
had died of cyanide, as the district attorney's office an-
nounced, then he would have had to receive the fatal
dose the day he died. That would completely eliminate
Molineux as a suspect. One of the points the prosecution
used against him in trying to show that he no longer was
friendly with Barnet was that he did not visit him during
his illness. Molineux explaned that he stayed away be-
cause he was told it was diphtheria. The disease is highly

Two Faces of Justice 35

contagious and at that time frequently resulted in death.
It is interesting to note that the prosecution, with one
exception, failed to produce any witness who could men-
tion the slightest disagreement between the two friends.
The one exception was Cornish, who claimed Barnet once
returned from a planned yachting trip because he had
found Molineux on board. The prosecution went far
afield in claiming that Molineux was jealous of Barnet
because of Blanche Cheseborough. The last time she had
gone out with Barnet was in June, 1898. She agreed to
marry Molineux in October, Barnet did not become ill
until the end of October. A man rarely poisons his rival
after he has won the girl and is on the eve of his wedding
to her.

Who tried to poison Cornish? Police, and most certainly
the district attorney's office, considered but one possibility.
Neither Cornish nor Mrs. Rogers was investigated. I am
not making any accusations, but since elaborate schemes
in which a person sends a death threat to himself are not
unknown, police should have checked it through. Cornish
and Mrs. Rogers were friendly. If Mrs. Adams had ob-
jected to their friendship, then she might have been the
intended victim after all. Cornish was a divorced man;
Mrs. Rogers was separated from her husband. Such situa-
tions have been the cause for murder. Another motive
for the attempted murder of Cornish might have been
found in his relationship with other members of the club.
Molineux was not the only one who disliked him. Police
did learn that a second letter box had been rented in an-
other store by a man using Cornish's name, and this man
also had been receiving samples of medicines. This news
was released with a fanfare of publicity to throw further

36 IT'S TIME To TELL

suspicion on Molineux, but what was kept quiet was that
the shopkeeper was brought to look at Molineux and
stated definitely that he was not the man who had rented
the box under the Cornish name. Molineux was not the
man who had purchased the silver filigree holder. Club
members knew where Molineux worked and certainly
knew of the ill will between him and Cornish. A club
member could have sent the poison to Cornish hoping to
shift the blame on Molineux. Finally, the poison was
mailed to Cornish during the first month of Molineux's
marriage. It is a rare bridegroom who is busy concocting
elaborate murder plots during the first weeks of his
honeymoon.

We have never come nearer to a solution than when we
first heard the strange story in the coroner's office. But I
am certain of one thing: had it not been for the one-sided
inquest, Molineux never would have been indicted for
the murder. The failure of police to make an arrest was a
good indication that they did not believe they had suf-
ficient evidence to warrant it. The inquest had been de-
layed so it could be used as a forum to get a coroner's jury
to make the recommendation, and the hearing did build
up public opinion against Molineux. It was one of the
most biased and unfair public inquiries I witnessed in
my thirty-six years with the office.

Even while Molineux was appealing his conviction, the
coroner's office became involved, indirectly at first, in
another and equally sensational case of suspected poison-
ing, I also had a casual connection with the case that
later became important. But where Molineux's conviction
represented to me an abuse of a coroner's inquest, the

Two Faces of Justice 37

work of the coroner's office in this second case, after con-
viction, was the reverse.

The news report of the death of William Marsh Rice,
an eccentric millionaire, was just another item on the
obituary page as far as our office was concerned. Rice,
who was eighty-four years old, had come to New York
after amassing a huge fortune in Texas. He was a recluse
and lived with his valet-nurse, Charles Jones, in a large
house at 500 Madison Avenue. He was on bad terms with
some of his relatives, had a fear of being poisoned, and
did his own cooking. His dietary habits were most un-
usual, particularly for a man his age; shortly before his
death he had eaten nine bananas, five fried and four
raw. His doctor certified that death was due to "old age,
a weak heart and diarrhea."

Several days later the district attorney suddenly issued
an order forbidding the funeral and asked our office to
conduct an autopsy on the already embalmed body. Mean-
while, the prosecutor had ordered the arrest of Albert T.
Patrick, Rice's lawyer, on a forgery charge.

Dr. Donlin, a surgeon on our staff, performed the
autopsy. Dr. Hamilton Williams, another coroner's phy-
sician, happened to be in the morgue at the time and
watched the autopsy.

I recall very well that day. Dr. Williams had just re-
turned to our office from the morgue where he had been
with Dr. Donlin and mentioned watching the autopsy.
Since I was curious, I asked him his opinion.

"There's nothing to it," he told me. "The old boy died
of old age. He ought to have died years ago/'

His remarks were in disagreement with the findings of
Dr, Donlin, who reported to the district attorney that

38 IT'S TIME To TELL

he had found some general congestion in the millionaire's
lungs that might have been the result of some irritant
poison. Dr. Williams thought the congestion was in keep-
ing with the aged man's general condition.

Dr. Williams was an unusual character. Well over six
feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds, he
wore a neatly trimmed Van Dyke, a mustache, and was
never seen without his tall silk hat. Born and educated in
Ireland, he spoke fluent French and Italian. He had
served for a time with the British Army and later prac-
ticed medicine in Dublin. A few hours after the Phoenix
Park assassination of Lord Cavendish, he treated one of
the fleeing killers for a broken leg and, fearing arrest for
this act, he also fled the country, escaping to France. He
finally made his way to the United States, where he be-
came a close friend of a Tammany Hall district leader; his
appointment as a coroner's physician was a political one.

With the report from Dr. Donlin, the prosecutor
charged Patrick with the murder of his wealthy client and
revealed his reasons for stopping the funeral.

Rice had died on Sunday night, September 23, 1900,
but no public announcement was made. The following
morning Patrick went to one of Rice's banks and pre-
sented a check for $55,000 made out to him and signed
by Rice. There was nothing unusual in this procedure.
Rice frequently drew checks to Patrick, even in the six
figures, since the lawyer fronted for the millionaire in
various stock deals. The teller noticed that the check had
been made payable to "Abert T. Patrick," without the
letter, L Patrick had endorsed it with his correct name on
the back. It was a minor error, but the bank teller wanted
verification. He telephoned Rice's home and was told by

Two Faces of Justice 39

Jones, the valet, that he had witten out the body o the
check and Rice had signed it. When the teller insisted
upon talking to Mr. Rice, Jones told him the millionaire
was dead.

The teller refused to cash the check, retained it and
notified his superiors, who decided to place the facts in the
hands of the district attorney. The prosecutor called in
a handwriting expert, who said Rice's signature had been
traced and that it was a forgery. Patrick then was arrested,
the funeral was stopped and the autopsy ordered.

The valet, Jones, also was arrested for the murder. He
told several conflicting stories. At first he confessed that he
had killed Rice by saturating a towel with chloroform and
holding it over the aged man's face until Rice died. He
said Patrick had not been present but that the lawyer
had induced him to do so and he was under Patrick's in-
fluence. He then changed his story and said he had seen
Patrick holding a towel over Rice's face as he lay on
his bed and that the lawyer had murdered his master. He
then switched back to his original story. Jones had been
hired by Rice for his strength rather than for his mental
ability.

The prosecutor accepted the first and last confession as
the true ones, that Jones killed Rice under Patrick's or-
ders. The prosecutor was certain that he had found an
excellent motive for the murder. Rice's latest will left
generous bequests to relatives, a grant of $2 50,000 to a
small Texas college, with the bulk of the fortune left to
Patrick over ten million dollars! It was a very strong
motive for murder, particularly since in a previous will
Rice had left most of his fortune to the college. And when
a fortune of ten million dollars is at stake, many strange

4 o IT'S TIME To TELL

things can happen, and many strange things did happen
in this case.

There was one serious flaw in the prosecutor's case
had Rice actually been poisoned or had he died o old
age? Dr. Donlin's autopsy report said that the congestion
in Rice's lungs could have been caused by an irritant
poison like chloroform, not that it had been.

The case then took a very surprising turn, at least for
me. Dr. Williams asked for a leave of absence from the
coroner's office so that he might devote his entire time to
the Rice case. He explained that he had been retained
by the prosecution as an expert witness who had been
present at the autopsy and examined the congested lungs.

The sudden emergence of Dr. Williams as an expert
witness for the prosecution was startling for several rea-
sons. First, on the day of the autopsy he had told me very
flatly that Rice had died of natural causes. It was difficult
to imagine that the district attorney had retained him to
swear on the witness stand what he had told me in the
office.

Also, while Dr. Williams was a capable medical doctor
and a great storyteller, he was in no way a post-mortem
specialist. As I indicated earlier, his appointment had been
made at the personal request of a Tammany Hall district
leader and not upon his qualifications. He was not a
pathologist, had little autopsy experience before his ap-
pointment, and had performed only a few autopsies in the
three years he had been in office. Even on these he found
himself in sharp conflict with the more experienced mem-
bers of the medical staff, who often disapproved of his
methods of performing autopsies. Many of his findings
were successfully challenged.

Two Faces of Justice 41

Just the same, when the case came to trial, Dr. Williams
was one o the mainstays of the prosecution. He took
the stand and testified under oath that Rice's death had
been caused by chloroform poisoning. I never knew why
he changed his views as to the cause of Rice's death. It
is a fact that he was paid an $18,000 fee as an expert wit-
ness by the district attorney's office. This represented
some three times the salary he received for an entire year's
work as a coroner's physician.

With this testimony, the autopsy report, the story told
by Jones and the ten-million-dollar will, the prosecution
had little difficulty in speedily convicting Patrick of first-
degree murder.

While the case was under appeal, there occurred a
dramatic incident that a fiction writer would have hesi-
tated to invent. The more experienced autopsy surgeons
in the coroner's office had been uneasy about the testi-
mony of Drs. Williams and Donlin at Patrick's trial.
They felt the autopsy findings were too sketchy to say
with any certainty that Rice's death had been due to
chloroform poisoning. In fact, they felt there was not even
scientific proof that chloroform had been administered;
only the changeable stories by Jones. Proof that it was
a murder had rested solely upon the testimony of the
doctors.

One day a man named Giovanni Ferrari was found
murdered. He had been tied securely and killed with
chloroform. The bottle, the rags, everything used, had
been left at the scene by the fleeing killers.

Dr. Philip O'Hanlon, one of the most skilled autopsy
surgeons in the office, was assigned to the case. Realizing
that this murder presented a perfect opportunity for a

42 IT'S TIME To TELL

clinical study of chloroform poisoning, Dr. O'Hanlon
invited Dr. John H. Larkin, adjunct professor of pa-
thology at the College of Physicians and Surgeons of
Columbia University, to work with him. Many other
prominent pathologists attended to watch and study for
themselves.

These highly skilled men found that the condition of
Ferrari's lungs differed from the description in the au-
topsy on Rice. Large sections of Ferrari's lungs were not
congested at all, conditions in the anterior and lateral
regions being quite normal. Other tests proved the pres-
ence of chloroform.

As a result of these findings more than five hundred
physicians signed a memorandum forwarded to the court
of appeals urging a new trial for Patrick on the ground
that the testimony of Drs. Williams and Donlin had been
at odds with medical knowledge and experience.

Dr. Larkin wrote:

The conviction of Patrick was upon medico-legal evidence
alone. It is an outrage that a man's life should have been sworn
away by such testimony. In the autopsy on Ferrari we had a man
who undeniably died of chloroform poisoning. He was found
bound hand and foot. The bottle was there. There had been
no other factor. Congestion of the lungs were shown to be not
co-extensive. The whole medico-legal testimony in the Patrick
case fails.

Physicians in other areas of the country also sent com-
munications. Dr. George Miller, a well-known professor
of toxicology in Philadelphia, cited many authorities to
show that the medical evidence at the trial had been
absolutely contrary to the findings of experienced toxi-
cologists.

Two Faces of Justice 43

The court of appeals finally upheld the conviction by
a four-to-three vote. Justice Dennis O'Brien, one of the
dissenting judges, stated publicly that he was thoroughly
satisfied that Patrick was innocent. The decision meant
that Patrick still could be executed for the murder of
Rice, but in view of the badly split court and the mass
of medical evidence in Patrick's favor, the governor com-
muted the death sentence to life imprisonment.

The medical evidence was not the only information
presented to the higher court. I was asked to give and gave
a sworn affidavit containing what Dr. Williams had said to
me on the day of the autopsy. A similar affidavit was made
by Jim Corrigan, a well-known newspaper reporter who
covered police headquarters at that time. On the same day
that Dr. Williams told me that Rice had died of old
age, he made an almost identical statement to Corrigan.

Patrick's lawyers continued their fight even after the
death sentence had been commuted. They regularly pe-
titioned each new governor asking for a pardon, the only
legal remedy left. In 1913, Governor Dix studied the
evidence and granted Patrick a pardon. In issuing it, he
wrote:

"There has always been an air of mystery in this impor-
tant case. ... I trust that Mr. Patrick will devote his
energies to complete vindication of his declared inno-
cence/'

Almost twelve years had passed since Rice had died,
and during all that time Patrick had been in prison. He
had spent all the money he had and the chance of un-
covering any fresh evidence at that late date was almost
hopeless. Jones, despite his own testimony that he had
killed his employer, had not been prosecuted. He was re-

44 IT'S TIME To TELL

leased for testifying against Patrick and had disappeared.

Patrick decided it was futile to remain in New York.
He went to Oklahoma, where he became successful in the
oil business, and died there.

Certain aspects of the case have always puzzled me.
First, the $25,000 check. Was it forged? Actually, and
ironically, since it was the check that started the entire
chain of events, this was never really established. Patrick
had been prosecuted by District Attorney Gardiner, the
same prosecutor who was criticized for his handwriting
experts in the Molineux case. Since he was trying Patrick
for murder, he had no need to prove the forgery of the
check and he sidestepped the issue.

Logic dictates against the check having been forged.
Patrick was one of the few persons that Rice seemed to
have trusted. He frequently made out very large checks
payable to Patrick, and the lawyer handled millions of
dollars in securities for him. If Patrick had wanted to
steal from Rice, he could have pocketed the securities or
the large checks made out to him at any time with no legal
recourse by the millionaire. Patrick earned large fees and
had money.

The misspelling on the check is one that an elderly and
ill man easily could have made. If Jones told the truth
when he said he wrote the body of the check, it also is an
error he could have made, since he was not an educated
person. If the check had been forged, then Patrick had to
know it, and he would have examined it with great care
and noticed the mistake in spelling.

According to the story told by Jones, he notified Patrick
after the murder. This makes Patrick's presentation of a
forged check even more illogical. He knew he was the

Two Faces of Justice 45

heir to a ten-million-dollar fortune, and with Rice dead
it soon would be his. Why should he have bothered with
a paltry $25,000, when he did not even need the money
at the time, when simply by waiting for the will to be
probated he would collect an amount fantastically higher?

The murder of Rice under the direction of Patrick also
made little sense at that time. The millionaire's health
had been fading rapidly and he was under the constant
attention of a doctor. His expected life span was very
short indeed; Patrick knew it and could afford to allow
nature to take its course.

Patrick had testified that the earlier will leaving the
money to the college had been a temporary legal device
because Rice was involved in some litigation which might
have embarrassed his estate had he died while it was in
progress. The will in Patrick's favor was set aside after his
conviction, and the various heirs came to an agreement.
The college received a large share and changed its name
to honor its unexpected donor.

What about the damaging story told by Jones, the valet?
I do not believe his story was credible, except possibly
to a prosecutor who wanted to believe him.

Jones suddenly found himself under suspicion. He was
a weak-willed, if not weak-minded individual. He told
different versions of the murder and later slashed himself
with a knife in his cell. The wound was superficial. He
even tried to blame the lawyer for that, although Patrick
was being held in separate custody.

I doubt that any of the accounts given by Jones were
the truth; he could have been persuaded to say anything.
If any were, then Patrick was a murderer who should
have died in the electric chair. It is possible that Jones,

46 IT'S TIME To TELL

in a fit of rage at his employer, had held a towel over
Rice's face. In his weakened condition, death would have
come very quickly. If so, then the killer was let go with a
pat on the back. The death of Rice had brought many
heirs and lawyers racing to New York. If Patrick could
be eliminated there was a ten-million-dollar-pie to be
divided. Even the prosecutor seems to have been affected
by the huge amount involved, since he paid such a large
fee to Dr. Williams whose testimony made it possible to
charge that a murder had been committed.

As for me, I believe William Marsh Rice's death was
due to the exact causes stated by his own physician on the
death certificate.

CHAPTER THREE

In Old New York

I AM FORTUNATE IN

having lived in New York City during its Golden Age,
that wonderful and fantastic fifty-year cycle that stretched
from shortly after the close of the Civil War to the start
of World War I. It was a time of fabulous people, fabulous
growth and fabulous events, and I was more than a by-
stander.

This was the period of the city's greatest expansion. The
first wave of Germans and Irish already had arrived, but
now the immigrants came in ever increasing numbers not
only from all over Europe but from everywhere in the
world, and you literally could see the city growing by con-
vulsive leaps. Stretches of vacant land, once thought too
far uptown, vanished almost overnight as the surging
population of Manhattan pushed steadily northward from
the harbor to the Harlem River, and rookeries sprang up
even in back yards on the lower East Side to house the

47

48 IT'S TIME To TELL

newcomers who were swarming in on boats of every de-
scription. The city was luring more than new immi-
grants; millionaires who wanted to crash society, and farm
boys who were yearning to be millionaires, were among
the many others swelling the population.

I don't know whether it is great times that produce
great men, or great men who produce great times, but
the combination of both existed in that fifty-year span.
It was during this age that many of the important basic
inventions of the modern world were introduced, men
amassed fortunes beyond even the dreams of kings, and
we saw many of the immortal stars of the theater, the
opera and the concert stage. It was a time of magnificent
opulence and luxurious living for the rich, stinking
poverty for the poor, and yet a period where any man
might make a great fortune. And it also was a time of flam-
boyant characters who might have stepped out of the
pages of fiction, yet they were real and I had the good
fortune to meet and know many of them. It was a wonder-
ful era in which to grow up, to play and work.

I was a boy of five, wide-eyed with wonder at the sights
of New York, when I arrived in this country. While I al-
ways have considered myself of French descent, in reality
I am a typical American blend. My father was French, my
mother was Danish, and I was born on July 27, 1862, on
the island of Trinidad in the British West Indies.

My family on both sides had been connected for
generations with various of these far-flung dots on the sea.
My father was born on Guadeloupe, a French colony. His
forefathers, in the late 1700'$, had been sent there by the
King of France to establish sugar plantations, and one
of my ancestors had been appointed governor. My mother

In Old New York 49

was born on St. Croix, where her grandfather, who had
served as chamberlain to King Frederick VI, was governor
of the Danish islands of St. Croix, St. Thomas and St.
John.

The sugar plantations on Guadeloupe had been worked
by slave labor, and when they revolted in 1848, my father,
then a boy of fourteen, and his sisters were shipped to a
boarding school in this country. Some five years later my
father returned to liquidate what he could of the family
holdings and went to Trinidad, a former French posses-
sion, where the family also owned some property. His sis-
ters had remained in this country, he always longed to
return, and so we moved here and he established himself
as a sugar broker with offices at 7 Hanover Place. My
mother's death, when I was seven years old, brought us
into even closer relationship, and my earliest memories are
of visiting my father's offices on Saturdays and school holi-
days and eating lunch at Delmonico's, located then at
the corner of Beaver and South William Streets.

My father's death, when I was fifteen, ended plans for
me to go to France for the final years of my education, and
my guardian sent me to a boarding school in Connecticut.
But after the excitement and gaiety of New York, I found
the bucolic countryside not to my liking and I walked out,
going to live with my grandmother.

By the time I was eighteen I was earning $150 a week,
a large income for those days, and I was a typical dandy
of the period, dressed in a dark cutaway coat, vest and
light trousers, with the inevitable derby hat. Sometimes I
sported a cane. A friend had obtained the exclusive sales
rights to a fine Havana cigar, and we opened an office
on Wall Street and the money poured in. For two years I

50 IT'S TIME To TELL

led a gay life, attending the theater, the opera and taking
part each year in the French Ball held at the old Madison
Square Garden. I was no stranger to places along the
Bowery and in the Tenderloin. The amusement center
was moving uptown from the Bowery, and one of the
most popular places was Koster 8c Bial's Music Garden
on Twenty-third Street, just west of Sixth Avenue. It ap-
pealed not only to the masses but to the carriage trade as
well. Here everyone ate, drank and listened to the music
of Rudolph Bial's orchestra. On Saturday nights it was a
favorite gathering place for politicians.

Around the corner on Sixth Avenue was the beginning
of the burgeoning Tenderloin district with its mammoth
dance halls like the Haymarket, Buckingham Hall, and
the Star and Garter. Latter-day historians have given the
impression that the Haymarket was nothing more than a
caterwauling house of prostitution. This is not true, par-
ticularly of its early days when it was the finest dance hall
in the city, a highly respectable place where young men
could bring their girls for a pleasant evening of dancing,
or where boys and girls could meet. Rowdies were quickly
ejected and so were any ladies of the night who came in
hoping to solicit business. No man had to patronize dance
halls for that purpose. The side streets of the Tenderloin
were overrun with streetwalkers, and red lights burned
purposefully over doorways of houses in the district that
operated openly with the connivance of graft-collecting
police.

The rapid pace at which I was living took its toll, and
a doctor thought I had developed tuberculosis. He sug-
gested that I spend the approaching winter in a warmer
climate, and I went to Havana where I had relatives.

In Old New York 51

Upon my return I found that our financial bubble had
burst; we had lost our cigar agency, and I decided it was
time to plan for a career.

Since that moment when as a young boy I had watched
my first torchlight pre-election parade with its noisy brass
bands and ringing oratory, I was fascinated by politics. I
noticed while playing the role of young man about town
that whenever I entered the finer restaurants or cafes, or
attended the theater or other expensive entertainments,
there would be a generous sprinkling of political figures.
They dressed well and lived well, and it was obvious to
me that politics offered a splendid opportunity for a young
man. I observed further that many lawyers were actively
associated with politics, and law had been one of the fields
of study my father had discussed with me before his death.
His father had been a lawyer. I decided to become active
in politics and to study law. Although I didn't know it
then, it was this decision that was to lead to my life's work
in the coroner's and medical examiner's office.

It was not necessary at that time to attend a law school;
you could become a lawyer by studying and working in a
law office. A friend introduced me to Nelson Smith, a
prominent attorney, whose clients included many large
business firms and some of the wealthiest people in New
York. He was active in the Democratic organization.

Nelson Smith was a shrewd and good-natured man. He
was kindly, too, because he did not even smile when I
presented my card with a flourish. I had been christened
George Genouillac Petit LeBrun, but I had dropped the
plebian-sounding George. The card carried not only the
mouth-filling name but also bore a crest of the family
coat-of-arms. Later, when I became more active in politics,

52 IT'S TIME To TELL

a friend advised me that my name was too foreign-sound-
ing, and I became plain George P. LeBrun, American.

Mr. Smith agreed to place me in his office. The salary
was miniscule, paying little more than my carfare and
lunches, but he told me I would have the opportunity of
adding to my income by serving legal papers. Through my
work with him I met some of the fabled people of that era.

I will never forget my first view of Hetty Green, known
as the "Witch of Wall Street," and believed to have been
the richest woman in the world. I was in the outer office
when a middle-aged woman, accompanied by a plain,
sad-looking girl of sixteen, walked in. The woman was
wearing an old, faded black dress, a battered straw bonnet,
and a pair of worn and unpolished black shoes. A shabby
black shawl was draped around her shoulders. Her cheap
black cotton gloves had been mended so many times it
was difficult to see any of the original material left in the
fingers. The girl was wearing an equally rusty black dress.
My first thought was that this pair was making the rounds
of the building begging for alms. My jaws must have
gaped when the woman said, "Young man, tell Mr. Smith
that Hetty Green is here to see him."

I hurried into Mr. Smith's office, convinced that we
had a madwoman on our hands, but he chuckled after
listening to my description of the pair. "That's Hetty and
her daughter, all right," he assured me. She was suing a
banking firm for $550,000 and Smith was representing
her.

I soon learned more about this strange woman. She
always approached our office on foot, her head bent low so
that nobody could get a clear look at her face, and all the
time she was darting quick glances about her. She was

In Old New York 53

suspicious of strangers she saw in the office and had a fear
of being trapped by an enterprising newspaperman.

The only thing she ever talked about was money, and
she always had a new triumphant story to tell me about
how somebody had tried to outdo her but how she had
outsmarted the villain. She dealt in millions of dollars,
and would walk a mile to save a penny. She hurried in one
morning in rare high glee. She had to send one million
dollars in securities to Philadelphia to close a deal and
had asked the Adams Express Company what they would
charge. She discovered that this would be slightly more
than the round-trip train fare to the Quaker city, and so
she casually tucked this fortune in readily negotiable
bonds in her reticule, and took the train herself. She
wasted more than five hours of her valuable time, had
saved less than one dollar, and was as proud as if she had
made over a million dollars, which she did on occasion.

I couldn't help feeling sorry for a poor buggy dealer
who thought he could beef up his profit on a sale. The
summer heat had forced Hetty to seek relief from her
Hoboken apartment, and she rented a room at the Ocean
House in Far Rockaway. She came to the reluctant con-
clusion that she had to have a buggy for use there and
marched in and out of second-hand places inspecting the
merchandise. She finally found what she wanted in an
establishment on Wooster Street, beat the man down to
a seventy-dollar price and ordered the buggy delivered to
the Ocean House. When delivery was made, she refused
to accept it.

"It wasn't the buggy I bought/' she told us. "The one
they sent me wasn't worth more than thirty-five dollars.
When they found out I was Hetty Green they thought I

54 IT'S TIME To TELL

wouldn't know the difference, or that I would come back
and buy a more expensive one. I didn't go back. They
couldn't cheat me." She paused for a moment and then
added casually, "You know, I loaned the Brewsters a half-
million dollars on their carriage plant."

If Hetty Green said that the carriage delivered to her
wasn't worth more than thirty-five dollars, that was pre-
cisely what it was worth, because if she loaned the Brew-
sters half a million dollars, you can be certain that she
knew as much about buggies as the manufacturer did.

I am one of the few people who ever had the oppor-
tunity of visiting Hetty Green's Hoboken apartment, and
I still have difficulty believing what I saw. Mr. Smith
had given me some papers which required her im-
mediate signature and sent me to her home to get it.

When I reached the building I thought I must have
jotted down the wrong address. This country's richest
woman was living on the top floor of a grimy, dingy
walkup tenement where she was paying a rent of twelve
dollars a month. I was puffing when I finally reached her
door. She would not unbolt the lock until she recognized
my voice and even then she only opened the door a crack
until she was certain that I was alone.

You entered her apartment directly into the kitchen of
a typical four-room railroad flat. We never left the kitchen,
which served as her office. She invited me to sit down on
a rickety chair while she sat at the kitchen table and care-
fully read the papers, pen in hand, and occasionally made
notes. It took her some twenty minutes to read the docu-
ments, and this gave me an opportunity to study my sur-
roundings.

The total furniture in the room consisted of three

In Old New York 55

kitchen chairs and the table. The floor was covered with
oil cloth, there was a coal- and wood-burning stove, an
ordinary pail containing coal, and an open wooden stand
with shelves holding a few pots and pans and some
cracked and chipped dishes. I could hear her daughter
moving around in the front room, but she never came
into the kitchen. After Hetty had studied the papers and
signed them, she placed them in a large envelope, sealed
it, and then handed it to me. She shook her finger at me
and said, "Young man, be very careful and do not let any-
one see this until you deliver it into Mr. Smith's hands/'
I reassured her and left. I learned later that she was living
in New Jersey in order to avoid paying New York taxes.

While Hetty kept piling up her millions and living in
little better than a hovel, her husband, a fine-looking man,
lived in comparative luxury at the Union Club on an al-
lowance she gave him. I also had to deliver some papers
to him.

Mr. Smith finally won his suit for her against the
bank. It had been a long and arduous case for him, and
his fee of $25,000, considering the work and the amount
of money involved, was reasonable. Hetty promptly
offered to pay him $20,000. It was not that she thought
his fee was excessive, but she liked to haggle and it was
almost second nature to her to offer less. She always
bought low and sold high. He refused to compromise, and
she quarreled bitterly with him but finally paid him in
full, a most certain sign that she recognized that his fee
was fair, since she was in constant litigation with other
lawyers because of her claims that she was being over-
charged.

The daughter inherited some of her mother's traits.

56 IT'S TIME To TELL

When she was in her seventies, she appeared before the
surrogate contesting her brother's will. Asked her age by
an attorney, she replied, "Put me down as over fifty, young
man. And while standing there doing nothing, will you
give me your own age and name?" She was the widow
of Matthew Astor Wilks of the Astor family.

While Nelson Smith had made no comment about my
calling card, he remembered it. He had been engaged as
chief counsel in an important suit, and one of the lawyers
told him that a process server was unable to break through
to serve the necessary papers to C. G. Franklyn, agent
for the Cunard Steamship Company. Mr. Franklyn was
a prominent society figure who lived in a large private
home on Washington Square, at that time one of the
finest residential sections of the city.

My employer asked me if I still had any of my cards and
when I nodded told me how I could get in to see Mr,
Franklyn and serve the papers. "Go up to his house," he
directed, "and when the butler opens the door, give him
one of those cards of yours with the crest. While Mr.
Franklyn doesn't know you, he will think you are a new
arrival from abroad, belonging to the French nobility, and
I am sure he will see you/'

I followed his instructions. The butler took my card,
placed it on a small silver plate, and ushered me into the
reception room. A short time later Mr. Franklyn entered
the room, holding my card in one hand and extending the
other, saying, "How do you do." We shook hands. He
then invited me to sit down. By this time I was very much
embarrassed at having fooled him. I handed him the sub-
poena. He opened the paper and when he saw the con-
tents, he left the room without saying a word. I found my

In Old New York 57

way to the front door before he could instruct the butler
to hurry me out-
Mr. Smith later laughed at my discomfiture. "Your
family crest ought to entitle you to a substantial fee/' he
remarked, and the other lawyer did pay me twenty dol-
lars for serving the paper. Because of this I got a reputa-
tion for being able to serve papers, and other lawyers
friendly with Smith would get permission to use me. But
I only presented my card with the crest just once again,
this time to a prominent Wall Street lawyer who knew all
the tricks, and it was the only way I could enter his office.
The crest again worked like a charm.

Actually, I found that it was not difficult to reach im-
portant people, and I even received a tip from Andrew
Carnegie when I served him. Mrs. F. B. Thurber, wife of
a wealthy merchant, had organized the American Opera
Company, and it had failed. The singers and chorus mem-
bers sued under their contracts. Mr. Smith represented
Mrs. Thurber and decided to subpoena the entire board
of directors of the opera company, including Mr. Car-
negie.

I arrived at his home in the early morning and was ad-
mitted without any delay. After I served him and he read
the paper, he said, "Young man, I want you to do me a
favor. I'm very busy today and can't stand around waiting
to be called to the witness stand. So when the lawyer is
ready to put me on, will you go to the telephone and call
me at this number? I can get to court in fifteen minutes."
I assured him I would and as he was leading me to the
door, he reached into his pocket and pressed a five-dollar
gold piece in my hand. He laughed when I tried to return
it to him. Still thinking I might have compromised the

58 IT'S TIME To TELL

service of the paper, I hurried back to see Mr. Smith. He
told me to keep it, that it was not a bribe. I did telephone
Mr. Carnegie when it was time for his appearance, and
after he left the stand he sought me out and thanked me.

Even with the occasional extra money earned serving
papers, I was unable to support myself, and the inherit-
ance I had received was dwindling rapidly. I reluctantly
halted my law studies in order to take a better-paying job
and became a cashier and assistant to the owner of the
Albemarle Cafe at Broadway and Twenty-fourth Street.

During the i88o's this cafe was a favorite meeting place
for actors, writers and men about town. Delmonico's had
moved to the opposite corner and occupied a building
with entrances on Broadway and Fifth Avenue. The
Madison Square Theatre was just around the corner and
next to the Albemarle was the noted Hoffman House,
headquarters for leading politicians and millionaires. One
of the owners was Edward S. Stokes, who had been re-
leased from prison after serving time for the shooting of
Jim Fiske. A feature of the Hoffman House was its huge
oil painting, "Nymphs and Satyr," that would cause any
woman of that era to blush. The free-lunch counter was
presided over by a waiter named Oscar, who frugally
saved the lavish tips he received and became better
known later as Oscar of the Waldorf.

The Albemarle was a lighthearted and cozy place with
a large rug in the rear and four tables with comfortable
chairs that were set apart from the rest of the place. It
was there that I met such famous actors as Maurice
Barrymore, E. H. Sothern, Richard Mansfield, the much-
married Nat Goodwin, and other celebrities and wits.
Clyde Fitch, the playwright, liked to talk to me in French.

In Old New York 59

One night I entertained a group of the actors by giving
an impersonation of Henry Irving singing "It's English
You Know/' and Maurice Barrymore clapped me on the
back and urged me to go on the stage. Instead, when I
had saved a little money, I returned for a short time to
Smith's office.

I was living at that time in a boarding house on West
Thirty-fourth Street operated by friends of mine. The
good boarding houses of that era had no relationship to
the dreary rooming houses of today. They were run more
like private clubs, served excellent food, and employed
many servants. They were well furnished, and the guests
had free use of the downstairs rooms.

I was a friend of Leon Saxe and his family. He was
French, having originally come from the Alsace region.
One night I received an urgent invitation to come to see
him. A young pianist, sixteen years old, had arrived here
with his mother, and Saxe had taken him into his home.
I listened to him play and was thrilled by his perform-
ance. At my request he agreed to come to my boarding
house and play. We arrived after nine o'clock, and the
lower part of the house was dark. I opened the Steinway
piano and he began to play selections by Chopin. Within
moments everybody in the house hurried downstairs, and
when he finished they kept begging for more and more
encores. The young man was Leopold Godowsky, destined
to become one of the world's greatest pianists. That fall
when he gave his first recital at Steinway Hall, then on
East Fourteenth Street, I went about town placing an-
nouncements in hotel lobbies and other places.

He later married Frieda, one of the Saxe daughters,
and we continued our friendship until his death. I would

60 IT'S TIME To TELL

visit him whenever he returned from one of his world
tours. He maintained an apartment at the Ansonia Hotel,
and one night there Mischa Elman, the great violinist,
pointed to Godowsky and said to me, "He is our master."
I was with Godowsky during the tragic death of his son,
Gordon, and later when he lost his beloved wife.

Across the street from the boarding house was the home
and office of Dr. Stephen De Wolfe. On my first visit there
I met his young daughter, Elsie, and when she learned I
was French, she told me she was studying the language,
and always practiced her French on me after that. She
later went on the stage, became a noted decorator and
after her marriage to Lord Mendl became an interna-
tional social figure.

I became active in politics by joining the local Demo-
cratic club of my district. When I decided I would have
to leave Mr. Smith's office for a better-paying job, I was
naive enough to believe that membership in a political
club was a passport to political patronage. Grover Cleve-
land, a Democrat, had recently taken office as President. I
knew this country maintained an American consul in
French Algiers. I reasoned that there were few Americans
who would want to go to Africa, and since I spoke French
as well as I did English, I was ideally suited for the post.
The fact that I was twenty-two years old at the moment
did not disturb me. I mentioned the thought to Mr.
Smith, and since he believed that experience is a good
teacher, he suggested that I draw up a petition to Presi-
dent Cleveland carefully outlining my qualifications. He
also arranged to have all members of the New York City
congressional delegation sign it.

Now certain in my mind that the appointment was all
but an accomplished fact, I left for Washington and ig-

In Old New York 61

nored the gloomy forebodings of my congressman who had
dutifully arranged an appointment for me at the Execu-
tive Mansion, as the White House then was known. It
was a hot July day in 1 885, and when I entered the Pres-
ident's study he was busy wiping his face with a large
white silk handkerchief. He shook hands with me, told
me "The French make very good citizens/' and suggested
that I leave my petition with his secretary. I left elated,
returned to New York expecting any day to receive a
letter or telegram advising me of my appointment. Two
months later newspapers reported the post had been given
to a prominent Southerner, and not long after that I went
to work at the Albermarle Cafe.

Although disappointed, I continued my membership
in the political club but I found I was not advancing much
in politics. I noticed that the men who got the most at-
tention from the important leaders were the heads of
political organizations, men who could deliver votes at
election time, and so I founded the Franco-American
Democratic Club. My reasoning was correct. I soon was
introduced to Richard Croker, leader of Tammany Hall,
and took an active part in the next city election. The
French colony was small and not too many were interested
in the politics of any party, so the membership of my
organization was not very large. Even so, this taught me
an important and fundamental lesson in American pol-
itics: You must deliver before you can expect to receive.

Toward the close of Cleveland's term in office, I again
was in financial straits and had to abandon for good my
apprenticeship in law, but now as a leader of a political
organization I merited some consideration. My sights no
longer were set as high; frankly, I was willing to take any-
thing. Instead of sunny Algiers, I found myself in the

6s> IT'S TIME To TELL

dead of winter taking a train and then a boat to Eastport,
Maine, one of the northernmost points in the country.
I had been appointed an immigration inspector to en-
force the Alien Contract Labor Laws on the Canadian
border; salary, five dollars a day.

I was the typical New York politician on my arrival.
The ground was covered with snow and it was zero
weather; I came ashore wearing a heavy ulster, a silk hat
and carrying a cane. I was introduced to my first speak-
easy there, some thirty years before national prohibition.
Eastport was a dry town, and I had a foretaste of what
the future would be like. One of the deputy customs
collectors invited me to have a cocktail and I accom-
panied him down Main Street into what appeared to be
a candy store. We entered a back room in which there
was a buffet bar stocked with liquor and glasses. Many
men were already there and as a newcomer I was intro-
duced to the president of the local bank, the postmaster,
the doctor, and most of the leading businessmen of East-
port. On the way out I was told to pick up some peanuts
from the show window as a cover-up for our reason for
entering the store. I discovered later that it was a futile
gesture since only the blind could have failed to notice
the existence of the speak-easy. There was one difference,
though, from its later counterparts. The liquor was good
and uncut; it was brought in openly from across the
border.

Just across from Eastport is the island of Campobello.
The following summer a resident pointed out a house
there as belonging to a fellow New Yorker, James Roose-
velt. A boy of seven was playing in front. I was told he
was Roosevelt's son, little Franklin. My job in Maine

In Old New York 63

lasted less than two years. Not long after the Republican
administration took office, my post was abolished.

As a result of the Lexow Committee which exposed
politically-inspired graft and corruption, a movement
was started in 1893 to take control of the city government
away from Tammany Hall. I owed no allegiance to that
organization and felt this was a fine opportunity for a
young and ambitious politician to make a name for him-
self, and I organized the Latin-American Democratic Re-
form Union, bringing together citizens of French, Spanish
and Italian birth or descent.

I was becoming wiser and more astute in politics. Al-
though there were not as many Italians in New York
then as today, they still greatly outnumbered the French
and Spanish, so it seemed good politics to me to have an
Italian as the head of our organization. I invited Antonio
Zucca, a respected businessman and a leader of the Italian
colony to become our president. The municipal election
that year was a bitter campaign. The opposition labeled
us the "Hot Tamales."

We supported William L. Strong, a banker and a Re-
publican, and he defeated the Tammany candidate. Be-
cause of our efforts we expected some practical recognition
and suggested Zucca for the post of one of the four excise
commissioners. I visited Mayor Strong on a cold, snowy
day shortly after he had taken office. He looked out of the
window after greeting me and then remarked, "It's a cold
day for an Italian." When I asked him if that meant
Zucca was not being appointed, he quickly assured me
he was giving it full consideration. The next day he an-
nounced his appointments, and Zucca was not named.

Several months later a new law added to the number

64 IT'S TIME To TELL

of city magistrates. I still thought our group should get
recognition. One of our members was John V. Bouvier,
Jr., of French descent, a young lawyer associated with
a well-known firm. I asked him if I could present his
name for appointment as magistrate and he agreed. Once
again I was disappointed, but I did become friends with
Mr* Bouvier. It was beyond the realm of our imagination
that one day his granddaughter would become this coun-
try's First Lady, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, the wife
of President John F. Kennedy.

It was during Mayor Strong's term in office that I first
met Teddy Roosevelt. He had been named president
of the board of police commissioners. A young man I knew
had taken the civil service examination for patrolman,
stood high on the list, but because he had no political
connections was never appointed. I met Commissioner
Roosevelt and told him about it. He investigated and the
very next morning appointed my friend to the force.
Every time I saw Mr. Roosevelt after that, including when
he was President of the United States, he always inquired
as to how my friend was making out on the force. He was
delighted to learn that he had risen to lieutenant and
had an excellent record.

Although our organization was nominally Democrat,
we also disliked the party's choice of William Jennings
Bryan for President and supported McKinley. But when
the municipal campaign was in the making in 1 897, the
city Democratic organization asked for our support. This
time they were planning to nominate an able man. We
had learned a lesson from our experiences with Mayor
Strong, that political promises are valueless, and so we
were not waiting until after the campaign. I asked for a

In Old New York 65

place on the ticket for Zucca and he was nominated for
coroner. After he won the election, Zucca named me
secretary to the coroner. He did this on his own without
consulting Tammany Hall. Although it was a personal
appointment on his part, still it was the fruit o my
fourteen years in politics that led me into what was to
become my lifetime career. Zucca made one error. His
fellow Italians had no objection to my appointment since
I had fought for the nomination of the first Italian to a
city office, but they rightly expected him to name one of
their number as coroner's physician. Instead, he allowed
a Tammany leader to dictate this appointment and it
probably led to his defeat four years later.

It is a murder case that typifies best many characteristics
of the Golden Age; in fact, it is a crime that could have
happened only during that era. In it we have a man of
enormous wealth, a creative genius, and the naivete, the
opulence and even the decadence that was so much a
part of that fifty-year span. The case that mirrored the
times so well was the murder of Stanford White by Harry
K. Thaw.

Consider the cast of characters and the setting: Thaw
was a playboy, an eccentric, and an heir to forty million
dollars. White was an architect whose beauty of design
helped change the structural face of this country, who
created gems of buildings and monuments. The Washing-
ton Square arch, the Columbia University library, among
many others, are permanent reminders of his genius. He
was fifty-two when killed, a man about town, and if the
story told by Evelyn Nesbit is true, he was so jaded
sexually that he obtained his thrills by pursuing young
virgins and ravishing them while they were drugged.

66 IT'S TIME To TELL

Evelyn Nesbit was the girl, sixteen years old when de-
spoiled, breathtakingly beautiful, and almost country-
fresh from a small town in Pennsylvania. She said White
gave her a glass o champagne that tasted bitter, the
room went black, and when she awakened she found her-
self naked in bed with White in a room where the walls
and even the ceilings were mirrored, reflecting every line
and curve of her magnificent figure, a setting reminiscent
of Roman orgies even to her blood on the sheets. This
trusting girl said she had looked upon Stanford White as
a kind, fatherly sort of man who swung her in a red
velvet plush swing that was part of the equipment of what
newspapers later referred to as his love nest.

The setting of the murder was opening night of a new
musical comedy, Mam'zelle Champagne, on the roof
garden of the beautiful old Madison Square Garden, de-
signed by White. A new show there was an event, with
handsomely gowned and bejeweled ladies and men in
formal evening wear in attendance. The roof garden was
a late supper club where guests sat at tables rather than
regular theater seats.

Thaw had recently married Evelyn Nesbit, and she had
told him of her seduction several years earlier by White.
That night Thaw, Evelyn and two friends attended the
opening. White was there seated alone at a table. The
Thaw party did not remain very long, and when they
arose to leave Thaw lingered behind. He passed White
several times and stared at him, but the architect's atten-
tion was riveted on the stage. During his final pass of
the table, Thaw suddenly pulled a revolver from his
pocket and fired three shots directly at the seated man,
killing him instantly. While the other guests leaped up

In Old New York 67

in alarm, Thaw broke open the gun, removed the re-
maining bullets and surrendered to a uniformed fireman
on duty at the door.

Not much later on that night of June 25, 1906, I was
projected into the case. I was home when I received a
telephone call from Coroner Dooley informing me that
an important murder had occurred. Although I was not
assigned to Dooley, he asked that I work with him. We met
in front of the Garden and rode the elevator to the rooL

When we arrived, Thaw and his wife were standing
together, surrounded by police officers. White's body was
still at the table, slumped in a chair. Thaw freely ad-
mitted the murder to us and said, "He ruined my wife."
He was quite calm and cool in his behavior. After the
shooting his wife had said to him, "Look at the fix you're
in now/' and he had replied, "I probably saved your life/'

Not long after Thaw was taken to the East Thirtieth
Street stationhouse and placed in a cell there, I was
amused to see Daniel O'Reilly, a former assistant district
attorney under Asa Bird Gardiner, hurry in, accompanied
by Tod Sloan, the famous jockey. O'Reilly had been
having supper at Rector's with Sloan when he heard of
the shooting. He quickly grasped the publicity values of
the case, to say nothing of the size of the fee that a
defense counsel would be able to charge, and he left the
restaurant immediately without finishing his meal. He
tried his best to talk Thaw into retaining him for the
defense, but the prisoner told police to notify his lawyer,
Lewis Delafield.

There was a sharp change in Thaw's appearance when
he was brought to the coroner's office the next morning.
He was pale and agitated; his eyes were bulging and he

68 IT'S TIME To TELL

did not seem to be able to focus them on one person or
spot, constantly shifting his gaze around the room. He
was perspiring heavily and in the few minutes it took
for Coroner Dooley to commit him to the Tombs, and
for me to fill out the forms, his handkerchief was
drenched.

Former Judge Olcott, who was recommended by Dela-
field to lead the defense, advised that application be
made to the court for a commission to pass on his client's
sanity, but neither Thaw's mother nor the son wanted an
insanity plea and Olcott withdrew. Thaw wanted his
defense to be the so-called Unwritten Law, a novel
thought in this instance, since the seduction not only
took place long before the marriage but before Thaw even
knew the girl.

The defense finally used what was a new approach then,
the theory that Thaw was temporarily insane at the time
of the crime, but had recovered his reason after it.

Evelyn Nesbit Thaw was the star witness of the case.
She told of her horror at waking up in bed and dis-
covering that she had been seduced, and how White had
soothed her by saying, "The greatest thing in the world
is not to be found out." She related that while she and
Thaw had been traveling together in Europe he had pro-
posed to her, but she had turned him down because she
feared he would be a laughingstock because of her ruin
by White. She had told him how the architect had drugged
her with champagne, and she related how it had affected
Thaw. Her marriage refusal puzzled me because Thaw
hardly could have thought she was chaste. They had been
traveling and sleeping together in Europe while he kept
proposing.

In Old New York 69

Some people pointed out that the seduction scene she
described was her version and that White was dead and
unable to refute it. The presence of the red velvet swing
in White's private studio was a fact, and while there may
be nothing more innocent than a healthy young girl
swinging on an old apple tree under the summer sun,
the presence inside a studio of a red velvet swing on
which he wanted young girls to swing, does suggest an
unhealthy atmosphere.

The first trial ended with the jury hopelessly dead-
locked. At the end of the second trial, Thaw was found
"not guilty because of insanity at the time of the act/'
Jerome, who prosecuted, refused to release Thaw and
had him committed to the New York State Asylum for
the Criminally Insane at Mattewan. There were several
lengthy lunacy hearings after that, and Thaw each time
was adjudged still insane. He managed to escape and
reach Canada, where officials refused to turn him over to
New York. Instead, he was dumped into Vermont and
managed to reach New Hampshire, where he was arrested.
A federal court pronounced him sane and in 1915 a
New York jury also said he was sane. He was returned to
an institution for another seven years after he was con-
victed of horsewhipping a boy. He managed to stay out of
any further substantial difficulties from his release in
1924 until he died in 1947 in Miami. Evelyn Nesbit di-
vorced Thaw, married her stage partner, divorced him,
and slipped into obscurity. Now and then when some
momentary interest was revived in the Thaw case she
would appear in vaudeville and night clubs, a relic of
Old New York,

CHAPTER FOUR

Business as Usual

I LEARNED EARLY IN

the coroner's office that Big Business had more than a
casual interest in our activities, particularly in our in-
quests. Railroads, public utilities, oil companies, large
excavating and building contractors and other firms who
employed men doing hazardous work usually had at least
one important politician on the payroll, or at their beck
and call, to act as a fixer when men were killed on the job.
The large corporations were not concerned with finding
out how or why employees were killed; too often they
knew only too well that they had failed to apply or enforce
reasonable safety measures. They were more interested in
making certain that these failures were not attributed to
them or that their responsibilities were called to public
attention. Corruption became a normal part of their
operations. If the fixer could reach a friendly coroner
who was amenable to political pressure, he would see to

7

Business as Usual 71

it that the coroner's jury was packed with friends o the
company, and a verdict would be brought in saying that
the deceased had met death because o his own careless-
ness. Such verdicts saved money for companies in several
ways. Death claims now could be settled for minor
amounts, if paid at all, and there was no need for install-
ing costly safety equipment or to hire a sufficient number
of supervisory personnel. Where political pressures did
not work, these firms were quick to offer bribes or to
condone perjury in order to cover up their questionable
practices. And let me emphasize that I am speaking here
from personal experience.

Commodore Vanderbilt, who founded the New York
Central Railroad, has been quoted as saying, "The public
be damned/' If he did not say it in feet, his successors
at the turn of the century seemed to agree with the
theory.

At that time the Park Avenue tunnel of the railroad,
leading in and out of Grand Central station, was the
scene of many mishaps. While the trains ran below street
level, most of the Park Avenue trackage still was not
roofed over, and the tunnel itself began near Fifty-eighth
Street. As a locomotive entered or left the tunnel, belching
its usual smoke, the vapors would hit the roof and bounce
down in front of the engineer, momentarily obscuring
his vision. The trains used soft coal. Trackwalkers were
killed and minor collisions occurred, particularly in the
two-block stretch of the tunnel from Fifty-eighth to
Fifty-sixth Streets, where the steam clouds collected most
heavily. Since train service was frequent, particularly
during rush hours, the air in this section had little chance
to clear before it was fogged up again. In rainy or muggy

72 IT'S TIME To TELL

weather, not at all unusual in New York, the tunnel took
even longer to clear.

Some of the signal lights were geared to ring a gong or
to explode a torpedo to halt a train that passed a red
light, but these seldom could be heard above the noise of
the trains clattering through the tunnel. None of these
lights had automatic stopping devices. One of the signal
lights was fairly close to the entrance inside the tunnel
where the smoke was heaviest. After each accident re-
porters had little difficulty gathering bitter remarks from
railroad workers who for years had been protesting the
smoky conditions in the tunnel. Railroad officials often
issued statements that they were taking steps to correct
the situation but that it would take time. New York Cen-
tral officers could not plead that they were unaware that
a hazard existed.

On the morning of January 10, 19021, the inevitable
happened. A speeding express entered the tunnel and
moments later rammed into the rear of a stalled train.
The light was red on the signal inside the tunnel en-
trance, but Engineer John M. Wisker said that he had
not seen it because of the haze in the tunnel. It was a
gray day with high humidity, and smoke just clung in
the atmosphere. Wisker said the track usually was clear
at that time for his express train to conclude its run into
the station.

Coroner Gustave Scholer and I left at once for the
tunnel. Even now, some sixty years later, I still recall the
scene vividly. All available hospitals had sent ambulances
with crews of doctors and nurses. The boiler on the
express had cascaded live steam, boiling water and flaming
coal onto hapless passengers. The stricken locomotive

Business as Usual 7$

was still pumping additional clouds of smoke into the
tunnel and had turned it into pea-soup fog. As we groped
our way forward, stretcher bearers would loom up sud-
denly. Many were carrying motionless blanketed figures.
We could hear the screams of the injured echoing and
re-echoing underground as they were placed on the road-
bed for emergency treatment. The scene had a night-
marish quality of Dante's Inferno being brought to life*
Eighteen persons were killed in the wreck and dozens
of others severely injured, some of them permanently
maimed.

Police had been the first to arrive and immediately
had arrested Engineer Wisker. After checking the signal
light and observing the smoke-filled tunnel, Coroner
Scholer told reporters he would hold an inquest six days,
later to determine the cause of the accident.

A coroner's inquest served an important public func-
tion, particularly where the welfare of the people was
involved. Although the verdict of a coroner's jury was not
necessarily final or binding upon a district attorney in a
homicide, it was a different matter when an inquest in-
volved a broad public issue such as safety, health, or work-
ing conditions. Such hearings were not cut-and-dried
affairs. Testimony frequently was detailed with experts
brought in for advice. The findings of such an inquest,,
particularly where it condemned practices and suggested
reforms, was a powerful voice for the common good, and
the public usually insisted that these reforms be carried
out.

Since Coroner Scholer had indicated clearly that he
planned to probe conditions in the tunnel, we knew the
New York Central would do everything it could to have

74 IT'S TIME To TELL

sole responsibility for the accident placed on Engineer
Wisker for passing a signal light, rather than on the rail-
road's operating policies.

Immediately upon returning to our office we discussed
the selection of a jury for the inquest. As part of my duties
as secretary to the coroner, I had to prepare a list of jurors
to be summoned to sit at an inquest. We decided not to
place on the jury anyone who had any connection with a
railroad, either for or against, and not to accept anybody
recommended to us for service by any politician. We
wanted an unbiased verdict by an honest group of men.

We didn't have to wait long before attempts were made
to pack the jury. Up to then I had always found in trying
to get together a jury that few men seek out such service,
and the more active and prominent a person is, the more
he seeks to evade it and, in fact, will use all the influence
he can to avoid jury duty. The picture changed abruptly
only hours after the train wreck. We were deluged with
telephone calls from busy successful men who suddenly
were anxious to perform their civic duties and were
eagerly offering to serve as jurors at this particular in-
quest. A retired army general and a former railroad
official were among those who personally hurried to our
office to point out to us their superior qualifications. Per-
haps we were unfair in suspecting that all of our callers
did not have the highest motives in offering their services,
but since the possibility existed that some of them might
be prejudiced one way or the other, we politely turned
down their offers.

New pressures now were added. Coroner Scholer was
not the average political hack in office. He had been a
successful physician, interested in good government, and

Business as Usual 75

while nominally a Republican, he had been elected on
a reform ticket and was beyond the control of any party
boss. I was active in the Democratic party, the head of a
political club, but we had demonstrated our political
independence on more than one occasion when we refused
to back candidates we felt were inferior.

It would be naive to assume that the New York Central
did not have friends in both political parties, and a
parade of Republicans and Democrats began to visit us.
Some were important, even on the national scene, others
wielded county-wide power, and some were lowly ward
captains. All had the same story to tell: They realized the
importance of this inquest and wanted to make certain
that we selected only highly intelligent jurors. By a strange
coincidence, all had taken the trouble to jot down the
names and addresses of men they would be pleased to see
on the jury. By a not so strange coincidence, the same
names kept popping up on all these lists. We made it clear
to our callers that the names being offered us would not
be called for possible service.

Bribery was the final approach. Dr. Scholer was inde-
pendently wealthy and offering him money simply was
out of the question, but I was a wage earner and a prime
target. A young attorney I knew only slightly, who was on
the legal staff of the railroad, paid me a surprise visit. He
said he wanted to talk to me in the strictest confidence
and during the conversation deplored what he called the
"demagogic" newspaper campaign against the directors
of the line. He mentioned that these directors would be
offended if the inquest verdict should censure them or the
railroad.

By now I had a fairly good idea of what was coming

76 IT'S TIME To TELL

and I waited quietly. And he didn't wait long either be-
fore reaching the point. He suggested that if I placed six
men on the jury whose names he would furnish me, men
who obviously could be relied upon to make certain that
the directors would not be ' 'offended" by the inquest
verdict, he would see to it that I was paid $2,500. I have
little doubt that this merely was an opening bid and that
if I had bargained he was prepared to raise the sum well
beyond that figure. I declined his offer without thanks*

For some time after he left, I debated whether to make
public his attempt to bribe me. I finally decided to say
nothing* My reasoning was simple. He was a young man,
only a few years out of school, and held a minor post with
the railroad. While he left no doubt in my mind that he
was not acting on his own initiative, I knew that the men
really responsible for sending him to me would deny it if
I talked, and so he would be the only one to suffer. He
was nothing more than an errand boy and a cat's-paw in
the situation. Perhaps, in retrospect, I should have pre-
tended to go along with him, hoping to trap those re-
sponsible, but I doubt if they would have entered the
negotiations at any stage, and my initial reaction was
anger when I bluntly told him to get out. I might add
that as the years passed this lawyer became a vice-president
of the New York Central and also served a term as presi-
dent of the ultrarespectable and conservative Union
League Club.

The jury I finally did summon was composed of bus-
inessmen from all sections of the city. All were highly
respected by their associates and neighbors, and none of
them, as far as I could determine, had any ax to grind.

The inquest opened as scheduled, and the jurors were
brought to the entrance of the tunnel, where they watched

Business as Usual 77

trains enter and leave and observed for themselves the
smoke in the tunnel. Coroner Scholer and District At-
torney William Travers Jerome questioned some forty-
five witnesses, and the inquiry took a week. Among those
summoned were the president and other officials of the
New York Central. In his closing remarks to the jurors,
Jerome told them that if they could find any law under
which his office could punish the railroad company and
its officials, he would do so.

With an honest jury, the verdict was the only one
possible under the circumstances. Engineer Wisker was
exonerated and the officials and directors of the New
York Central were held responsible. The official findings
read in part:

We further find faulty management on the part of the officials
of the New York Central and Hudson Railroad, and we hold
said officials responsible for the reason that during the last ten
years said officials have been repeatedly warned by their loco*
motive engineers and other employees of the dangerous condi-
tions existing in said tunnel, imperilling the lives of thousands
of passengers, and they have failed to remedy said conditions;
and also for the reason that certain improvements in the way of
both visible and audible signals could have been installed, and
the disaster thereby avoided; and for the further reason that no
regulation of speed at which trains should be run in said tunnel
has been enforced, thereby allowing engineers to exercise their
own discretion.

The following day one of the newspapers published
photographs of all the directors of the New York Central
with a finger pointing to the pictures. The caption under
the pointing finger read, "These are the men responsible
for the killing of eighteen people."

It is not difficult to understand why the railroad would

78 IT'S TIME To TELL

have liked to have six men of its own choice on the
coroner's jury.

When Jerome placed the case before a grand jury, the
engineer became the scapegoat and he was indicted for
manslaughter. The same thing has happened before and
since in so many railroad accidents that this should cause
no particular surprise.

The indictment did have a tragic sequel. Before a date
was set for the trial, Wisker's body was found in the
Harlem River; he had committed suicide.

It is regrettable that Wisker could not have been tried
with competent counsel to defend him. I do not believe
that any honest jury would have found him guilty, and
it should have been possible to place on the witness stand
the same array of railroad officials who had been com-
pelled to appear at the inquest. The coroner's jury found
that the engineer could not have seen the signal he
passed because of the dense smoke, and I feel certain that
any other group of twelve disinterested men would have
come to the same conclusion.

But the inquest did have the desired effect. The public
was aroused, and the railroad soon found methods of
overcoming the hazard.

It would be unfair to pick out just the New York
Central, because so many big firms operated on the theory
that profits were sacred and that nothing, not even the
lives of workers, should interfere. And, of course, there
should be no publicity about it.

I received a first-hand lesson in this theory when five
men were asphyxiated by toxic fumes while cleaning boats
owned by Standard Oil. This was before the oil trust had
been broken up into many individual companies.

Business as Usual 79

Soon after the case was reported to our office, I was
visited by a prominent politician who, I learned later,
was on the payroll of the oil company. He asked me to
accompany him to Standard Oil's offices at 26 Broadway,
where he assured me I would be furnished with the names
of witnesses who could explain how the accident occurred.

I was pleasantly surprised at this offer of co-operation
and had visions of a new era dawning. When we reached
the headquarters of the oil company, we were brought
without any delay into the private office of the secretary of
the giant corporation. This official was extremely cordial.

He seemed well prepared for my visit because he was
able to tell me in detail how careless these five dead men
had been in willfully disobeying company rules and
bypassing established safety measures. They had been
warned that the disinfectant they were using was danger-
ous and that they should keep die holds well ventilated.
When I sought to learn more about the rules and how
the company went about enforcing safety, I learned that
it was not company co-operation I was being offered, but
rather it was my co-operation that was being sought.

The oil trust in those days was not among the most
popular business enterprises with the public and had been
receiving some unfavorable mention in the press. The
secretary of this vast world-wide business enterprise was
not interested in anything as crude as packing a coroner's
jury. He knew that an inquest had to be held, and all he
wanted was to have it conducted in secrecy, without a
jury, if possible, but specifically without any newspaper
reporters present. When I pointed out that the coroner's
court was public, and secret inquests were held only in
rare instances to protect a child, the interview was over.

So IT'S TIME To TELL

As we were leaving, the secretary suggested, "Talk to
Harry about it."

No bribe was offered and no mention of money was
made in the office, but when we were out in the hall,
Harry, the politician, again urged me to arrange a secret
inquest. "It will be worth your while," he said. By this
time I had become so inured to bribes that I didn't even
bother answering.

When the inquest was held, the press was well repre-
sented. A careless employee must have supplied the secre-
tary of Standard Oil with some wrong information. After
the facts had been presented, the coroner's jury returned
with a verdict finding the oil company negligent in not
providing proper safeguards for the five men asphyxiated.
It would seem that they had not been careless after all.

Sometimes business interests resisted making changes
-even when the amount of money involved was negligible
and the improvements suggested were very much to their
advantage. I found this true of many real estate firms.

New York began to expand vertically with the intro-
duction of passenger elevators in buildings. As more
elevators came into use, deaths in elevator accidents be-
gan to rise. Most of the accidents were caused by cars
being in motion while passengers were getting on or off.
The victims either would slip and fall down the elevator
shaft or else get caught between the walls and be crushed
beyond recognition.

I was appalled at the mounting toll, because most of
these deaths were needless tragedies. There were many
inexpensive devices on the market which prevented an
elevator from moving up or down until the outer doors
were locked. When the Woolworth Building was opened

Business as Usual 81

as the tallest building then in the world, the chain store
founder told me he had the safest elevators in existence,
and he did. He even invited me to witness a safety test of
an elevator he had installed in a private house he was
having built on Eighty-second Street near Fifth Avenue,
opposite his own residence, which he had presented to one
of his daughters as a marriage gift. At an additional ex-
pense of but twenty-five dollars a car he had installed the
latest automatic equipment to prevent cars from moving
while doors were open. The average office building at
that time had two or three elevators, so for a sum of from
fifty to seventy-five dollars or less, the owner of a building
could make this improvement. Since a single accident cost
many times more than that in legal fees, not to mention
damage suits, I anticipated little difficulty in cutting down
on elevator deaths.

A survey was made which showed that less than half
of the building elevators in the city had safety devices;
the others were death traps. The coroners issued a state-
ment advocating the installation of holding devices on
elevators. Coroner's juries also called for them after each
inquest into an elevator death. Nothing happened and
the deaths continued, eighty-five in Manhattan alone in
one year.

I spoke to the city building commissioner and urged
him to amend the local law requiring the installation of
safety devices on elevators. He told me frankly that the
real estate firms would run him out of his job if he tried
to have such a bill passed. I scoffed, at first, at his attitude
until I interviewed some building owners myself and
found them almost violently opposed to any such pro-
posal.

8s> IT'S TIME To TELL

Unable to get the city administration to act, I asked
State Senator Sullivan to introduce a bill which would
force action upon the city. The measure was referred to
the senate judiciary committee, and I went to Albany on
the day set for its hearing. On the train I met a lawyer I
knew who told me he had been hired by the Allied Real
Estate Association to fight the bill and kill it in com-
mittee. He added that he had ample funds at his disposal.
He won; the bill was not reported out.

It was the death of Supreme Court Justice Bischoff, the
gssnd elevator victim in just a few years, that broke the
opposition. There was a shortage of office space in the
courthouse, and the city had rented several floors in a
near-by bank building for judges' chambers. Justice Bis-
choff had a suite on the thirteenth floor. He had stepped
into an elevator with a companion. When the elevator
stopped at the twelfth floor, his companion saw a friend
and stepped out to talk to him. Just as the car began to
move, Justice Bischoff also decided to get off. He lost his
balance and as the elevator rose, he fell through the open
door down the shaft. I went to the scene with Coroner
James Winterbottom. While we were in the basement
examining the body, reporters from almost every paper
arrived, and I pointed out to them that if the legislature
had passed the bill I suggested, the accident could not
have occurred. They all quoted my remarks. A short time
later the building commissioner publicly urged passage
of the law.

I would like to think that it was my voice that stirred
the action, but I am more inclined to believe that poli-
ticians, who do have to visit judges, finally became aware
after Justice Bischoff s death that they were risking their

Business as Usual 83

own lives and stopped supporting the real estate interests
in favor of safe elevators.

When it became evident that the bill would be passed, I
was offered a different form of bribe. Fast-talking sales-
men crowded my office seeking an exclusive endorsement
for their particular product, and they painted a rosy pic-
ture of handsome commissions for each device sold. They
couldn't understand why I turned them down. The best
picture for me is contained in the annual reports of the
medical examiner's office which now rarely show as many
as four deaths a year in elevator accidents in all of New
York City.

Happily, too, large industrial firms today no longer
consider their workingmen expendable and they have
stringent safety programs. But whenever a disaster with
many deaths does occur and an inquiry is held, you still
will find that the blame is largely attributed to one of the
victims. The fixers may still be among us.

Coroners sometimes did keep to themselves informa-
tion the press would have liked to have, but bribery
seldom was involved in these instances. It was rather a
desire to protect families from useless scandals.

A prominent New Yorker, and a close friend of Teddy
Roosevelt's, left his office late one afternoon to keep a
tryst at a hotel with a demimonde of that era. While in
bed with her he was stricken with a heart atttack. To the
girl's credit, she did not run away but hastily summoned
the house physician. The man died before he could be
taken to a hospital.

The coroner went to the hotel where he verified that
the man had died of a heart attack and there was nothing

84 IT'S TIME To TELL

suspicious about his death. The man's business partner
was notified, he arranged to have the body removed to a
funeral parlor, and he then notified the wife that her hus-
band had dropped dead while on his way to visit a friend.
Newspapers the next morning carried the same story.
Neither the wife nor the man's children were told the
true circumstances of his death, and since no inquests
were held where deaths were due to natural causes, the
facts were effectively hushed up.

Justice was neither defeated nor thwarted in this case
nor in others of a similar nature as long as the coroner
investigated and made certain that death was due to
natural causes. The one-day scandal could only have
harmed members of the family who were innocent vic-
tims. But I always was suspicious when wealthy families
tried to exert pressure on the coroner's office when they
were the subject of a legitimate inquiry.

I still wonder about the verdict in one case. I can vouch
for the absolute honesty of the coroner. I know he resisted
tremendous pressure. And yet I still feel that the com-
plete facts were never brought out or examined fully.

Late in the afternoon of November 7, 1907, we re-
ceived a call at the office from Dr. Joseph Blake, a dis-
tinguished surgeon, reporting the death of Charles T.
Barney from a gunshot wound. This was sensational
news. Barney was a millionaire, a prominent member of
society, and newspapers recently had carried reports of a
spectacular financial struggle for control of the important
Knickerbocker Trust Company. Barney finally had been
forced out as president in a battle that had cost him a
fortune.

Business as Usual 85

Coroner Julius Harburger and Dr. Philip F. O'Han-
lon, the coroner's physician, went to the Barney home at
Thirty-eighth Street and Park Avenue. They were met
by Mrs. Barney, dry-eyed and icily reserved in manner,
who said that a gunshot had been heard in the house at
nine-thirty that morning and that it sounded as if it had
come from her husband's room. Accompanied by a house
guest, she had gone to his room and found him sinking
to the floor, both hands pressed to his stomach. A small,
five-chambered revolver was on the floor. Mrs. Barney
had telephoned Dr. George A, Dixon, who not only was
the family physician but also a close personal friend of
her husband's.

Dr. Dixon said that upon his arrival he had found his
friend in shock and suffering from a severe lose of blood.
He stated Barney had told him the shooting was an acci-
dent. He had sent at once for Dr. Blake and another
surgeon. Both men had performed an immediate explora-
tory operation and had seen that the wound was fatal.
Barney had succumbed at 3:00 P.M.

A short time later Dr. Dixon modified his statement.
While with Dr. Blake, he now said, "At no time while we
were with Barney did he say a word to us about the shoot-
ing." He said it was his personal opinion that the shooting
had been accidental.

Harburger also learned that Mrs. Barney had been
planning to sue her husband for divorce.

The autopsy was performed by Dr. O'Hanlon, a thor-
oughly experienced man. He found that the bullet had
entered on the left side of the lower abdomen, angled
upward through both intestines, continued through the

86 , IT'S TIME To TELL

left lung and finally lodged in the muscles o the back,
close to the neck, just to the left of the spinal column.
Dr. O'Hanlon wrote in his report:

I have never, in all my experience of twelve years in examin-
ing the bodies of more than a thousand self-killings by shooting,
seen one in which the aura of self-attack has been within the
space in which was inflicted the wound which caused the death
of Mr. Barney. And in all my experiences, I have never known
of a right-handed man shooting himself in the lower left abdo-
men with the muzzle of the pistol pointed upward. That was
the only way the bullet could have driven through the larger
and smaller intestines.

The autopsy surgeon left no doubt that he did not
believe that Barney had committed suicide.

Yet Coroner Harburger, who was not a doctor and who
knew little, at best, about gunshot wounds, flatly refused
to accept Dr. O'Hanlon's opinion. He insisted that it was
obvious that Barney had committed suicide, that he was
driven to it by the sudden piling up of his financial and
marital difficulties. A reader might say at this point that
the fix was in and the coroner wanted to palm the death
off as a suicide. I don't believe it. I was present at the con-
ference and I knew Harburger well enough to know that
he was sincere when he insisted that it was a suicide.

I know further that Mrs. Barney's lawyer asked Har-
burger to excuse her from attending the inquest. He
refused. "Big Tim" Sullivan, one of the leaders of Tam-
many Hall, then made the same request. Sullivan seldom
asked for a favor; he preferred granting them. In addi-
tion, Harburger was his protege, and the coroner freely
admitted that it was Sullivan who had elected him to

Business as Usual 87

office, but he was just as firm in turning him down. He
said Mrs. Barney would have to testify, and she did. Dr.
O'Hanlon gave his autopsy findings at the inquest and
told the jurors that since there was no evidence that any-
one had shot Barney, the wound must have been acci-
dental.

Harburger, though, was determined upon suicide and
in his charge to the jurors virtually ordered them to bring
in such a verdict, and they complied.

That was the official end to the Barney case, but there
is additional information to be considered. Dr. Dixon
filed a claim of $24,000 against the estate for his services.
Following customary procedure, the surrogate's court
directed him to furnish a bill of particulars itemizing his
services to substantiate the claim. Rather than make pub-
lic the services he had performed for Barney, the physician
relinquished the entire claim. According to Mrs. Barney's
statement, she found her husband shot at 9:30 A.M., but
the coroner's office was not notified until late afternoon.
This was a violation of the law requiring the coroner to
be notified before a victim's death in such cases, so that an
ante-mortem statement might be obtained.

Reporters learned that Mrs. Barney had planned to file
her divorce suit in New York. Adultery was and still is
the only grounds for divorce in the state. No attempt was
made to find out if there was another woman. I heard
rumors later that Barney was not shot in his own home
but at the home of a married woman and was brought to
his own place to avoid a scandal.

Harburger was sincere when he believed that Barney's
financial and domestic difficulties pointed to suicide, but
he overlooked the fact that these also can be motives for

88 IT'S TIME To TELL

murder. Whether Barney deliberately shot himself,
whether he accidentally shot himself at home or else-
where, whether somebody accidentally shot him, or
whether he was murdered, are questions the inquest
never resolved. Time also has failed to provide any an-
swer. If there had been no attempt to apply political
pressure, I probably would have dismissed it from my
mind.

CHAPTER FIVE

Retribution

ONCE A MAN HAS

passed his ninetieth birthday, he can be sure the press
will take more than a passive interest in each new mile-
stone. Days before each birthday reporters and photog-
raphers visit me. By and large, they ask the same questions
they have been asking for years and snapping the same
kind of photographs. And since I divide my time between
Florida and New York, I go through this process twice
a year. I worked with newspapermen all during my
thirty-six years in office and had many friends among
them, so I do not mind. A new note was introduced sev-
eral years ago when some reporters, with the uproar over
the Caryl Chessman execution in mind, began to ask me
questions about capital punishment.

This is a difficult question for me to answer. I spent
many years fighting for laws to help save lives. I was active
in an organization that was founded to help save would-be

89

go IT'S TIME To TELL

suicides. I saw innocent men convicted and saved from
execution and I discuss elsewhere the possibility of a man
who might have been innocent being electrocuted. Every
instinct within me cries out against the needless waste of a
human life. And yet I recall a case where I thought the
death penalty was deserved, and have no reason to change
my mind.

There is a vast difference between the teen-age girl of
today and her counterpart in the early years of the cen-
tury, particularly the girls from poorer homes. Few of
them then had opportunities for schooling beyond the
elementary grade levels, and job opportunities were
scarcer; most of them were condemned to dreary lives
working in cheerless factories.

The picture brightened somewhat about 1910, the year
of this particular case. Girls were beginning to find oppor-
tunities to work in offices, and families hopefully scraped
together funds to send bright daughters to business
school where they could learn typewriting and stenog-
raphy. The girls were more naive then and so, I might
add, were the directors of some of these schools.

Ruth Wheeler, sixteen and pretty, was such a girl. She
was attending a secretarial school hoping for a career in
an office. A bright student, she was highly regarded by
her teachers, and when the school received a handwritten
postcard signed "Albert Wolter," asking for a girl to be
sent to him to work as a stenographer at seven dollars a
week, Ruth was selected. The card was turned over to her
without any checking by the school, even though a busi-
ness firm would be expected to use its own letterhead.

She left home the morning of March 25, 1910, eagerly
looking forward to her first job. Late that night the girl's

Retribution 91

mother and an older sister, Pearl, entered the East Sixty-
seventh Street stationhouse and reported to Captain Ed-
ward B. Hughes that Ruth had failed to come home.
Usually police are not concerned unless a girl that age is
missing for at least twenty-four hours, but Captain
Hughes knew the type of hard-working respectable family
the Wheelers represented, and he listened attentively to
their story.

Mrs. Wheeler explained that after supper, when Ruth
did not appear, she decided to search for her, accom-
panied by Pearl and a neighbor. Another daughter and
an uncle remained at home in case Ruth returned while
they were out. They became frightened when they
reached the address on the postcard, 224 East Seventy-
fifth Street. It was a shabby, four-story walkup apartment
house, not the kind of place where a man would be em-
ploying a stenographer, a fact that a sheltered girl like
Ruth, unfamiliar with the business world, would not
realize. Pearl told her mother and family friend to wait
outside while she went into the building. She learned that
Wolter lived in an apartment on the third floor and
knocked on the door.

She said that a rosy-cheeked young man, with excep-
tionally large hands for his size, opened the door. There
was a girl in the room with him. The young man invited
her in and told her he was Wolter. He turned the key in
the lock after she entered. When she asked him about her
sister, Wolter laughed and told her he did not know her
sister and had not seen her. She said she became fright-
ened at the calculating way he was examining her and she
asked him to open the door, but he laughed again and
told her not to be in a hurry. The quick-thinking girl

g* IT'S TIME To TELL

then told him that there was a policeman waiting for her
downstairs. Wolter promptly unlocked the door and let
her go.

Captain Hughes did not like the sound of the story. At
that period white slavers were still active in New York,
and he suspected that Ruth Wheeler might have fallen
into such a trap. He ordered a young patrolman to accom-
pany the Wheelers back to the apartment and make a
search.

Wolter was in his pajamas and yawning when Mrs.
Wheeler, Pearl and the patrolman arrived. The group
looked around the apartment and found no trace of Ruth
or any indication that she had been there. At one point,
while the patrolman was questioning Wolter, who re-
peated that he knew nothing about Ruth Wheeler and
had never seen her, Mrs. Wheeler moved close to a
boarded fireplace. Pearl noticed that it was freshly
painted and warned her mother to be careful not to
smudge her skirt.

An alarm was sent out for the missing girl. She had
been wearing a dark coat and skirt, a white shirtwaist and
a double strand of turquoise beads, and had carried an
umbrella.

The following morning, still worried about the case,
Captain Hughes sent several detectives to the apartment.
A young woman was tidying up the rooms. She told them
that she did not know where Wolter was. The officers left,
waited for the girl to come out and then followed her to
a tenement on East losth Street. When they entered the
girl's apartment, they also found Wolter there. Pearl
Wheeler had furnished an accurate description of him.
He was a good-looking youth, eighteen years old, pink-

Retribution 93

cheeked, golden-haired, and with unusually large hands.

The officers found a notebook belonging to Wolter in
this apartment. In it were the first names of several girls,
including a Ruth, with a notation in German script that
she had been hired for seven dollars a week. Wolter was
taken to the precinct and questioned but he repeated that
he knew nothing of the missing Ruth Wheeler. He was
held for investigation while police returned to his apart-
ment and once again searched it and found nothing.

The next day, on Saturday afternoon, Mrs. John Tag-
gart, who lived in the building adjacent to Wolter's and
shared the same rear fire escape with his apartment, told
her husband that he should complain to the people across
the court because they had left the fire escape littered
with trash. She remarked that she had awakened at
eleven-thirty Thursday night, gone to the kitchen for a
drink, and noticed somebody shoving a big bundle out
on the fire escape.

Mr. Taggart was a man of action. He raised the window
and pushed the trash bundle off the fire escape. The
couple watched it tumble three stories to the back yard
below. Moments later Mrs. Taggart screamed and her
husband hurried down the stairs for police. When the
bundle hit the ground it had partly opened, disclosing a
human head.

A short time later I went to the scene with Coroner
Holzhauer and Dr. O'Hanlon. We took the bundle to
the local precinct, where we opened it and found that it
cointained the partially burned body of a girl. A length
of three-eighths-inch rope still was knotted around her
neck. The greater part of her arms and legs had been
burned away. The head was thrown back and the girl's

94 IT'S TIME To TELL

tongue was clenched between her teeth, suggesting her
death agony. Later medical examination showed that the
victim had been raped, and soot in the bronchial tubes
was evidence that she still had been alive when placed
in the fire. The forearms and leg bones above the knees
had been broken, evidently so the body could be doubled
up to go into the fire. The rope around her neck held in
place several turquoise beads from a broken necklace.
The victim was identified as Ruth Wheeler.

When we visited Wolter's apartment and removed the
freshly painted board from under the mantel, it became
painfully clear where Ruth Wheeler had died. The fire-
place was a tiny iron affair, two feet wide, two feet high
and less than two feet deep. The trussed-up body just
about fitted into it. The police officers, who had made
the earlier two searches, had never bothered to look be-
hind the board. When the ashes in the fireplace were
sifted, officers recovered a hatpin, steel from corset bones,
an unburned piece of white shirtwaist, and portions of
human bones. The kitchen stove, which also had not been
searched, was stuffed with pieces of Ruth's clothing and
her shoes.

It was easy enough to reconstruct the crime. Ruth must
have been seized and attacked shortly after she had
reached the apartment. After choking and raping her,
the killer used his large hands to snap her arms and legs,
bound the body with wire, and stuffed it into the fire-
place. He saturated her with kerosene and fired the body
on a bed of charcoal. The girl had been alive all this time.
It was a particularly brutal and callous murder.

When he discovered later that the body had not been
entirely consumed it is much more difficult to burn a
body completely than people realize he wrapped what

Retribution 95

remained in bags and placed it on the fire escape. The
body was there when Mrs. Wheeler, Pearl and the young
officer made their ineffectual search the night of the mur-
der. It was still there the next day when police again made
a search. Fortunately, police are better trained today and
do not overlook fireplaces, stoves and fire escapes.

The police and the prosecutor felt they had a strong
case of circumstantial evidence against Albert Wolter, but
since they knew from past experiences that juries are
reluctant to convict on circumstantial evidence alone,
they pressed the eighteen-year-old youth for a confession.
Wolter calmly insisted that he was innocent and promptly
laid the blame on a third person. Every investigator be-
comes familiar with these stories where it always is a
mysterious stranger or friend who really did it. Yet be-
cause they contain a note of plausibility, police must
check such stories thoroughly, and they often are effective
with juries.

In Wolter's case he said it must have been his friend,
Frank Abner, who was responsible. He still said he never
had seen Ruth Wheeler. According to Wolter, Abner was
a German waiter whom he had met in Coney Island. He
did not know where Abner lived. His story was that he
and Abner had planned to start a business school and he
was going to teach German shorthand. The two of them
had sent cards to a number of business schools asking for
graduates. They had wanted the girls to teach in the
school they were going to start.

On the day of the murder he had lent his apartment to
Abner and did not know what had happened during his
absence.

Although police did not believe Wolter's story about
Abner, they knew that if the defense could produce a

96 IT'S TIME To TELL

single witness who had ever met or seen him, Wolter
never would be convicted. Detectives began a long and
thorough search for the mysterious friend. Some visited
agencies who handled the employment of waiters. Others
asked hundreds of German waiters if they knew or had
heard of a Frank Abner. Every restaurant in Coney Island
was canvassed. The description of Frank Abner, fur-
nished by Wolter, was printed in all the newspapers.
Police were unable to locate a single German waiter with
that name, or one who matched the description furnished
by Wolter.

Slight additional circumstantial evidence was turned
up. A salesclerk identified Wolter as having bought a
brush and a small can of black paint on the day of the
murder. Wolter admitted the purchase but denied having
painted the fireplace board and suggested that Abner
must have done it.

The coroner's office also was working on its own phase
of the case. Dr. George S. Huntington, professor of anat-
omy at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, was asked
to help reconstruct the mutilated body from the vari-
ous charred fragments we had.

The iron nerve of the youthful suspect broke just once
before the trial. Katchen Muller, the girl who had been
in the apartment with him, sent him a letter. It was
turned over to him unopened. He read the enclosed note
and fainted. It was written in German, and police quickly
had it translated. It read:

"My dear Al: As you have been good to me, I beg you to tell
the truth. They found a sack on your fire escape, and from what
they tell me I think you are guilty. I beg you to tell all. I will

Retribution 97

forgive you. You have been so goodhearted to me I can scarcely
believe it. Take my advice and tell everything. You know what I
know. I appreciate your kindness, but I believe you guilty, and
I beg of you to confess, and no matter what happens I will love
you. Katie."

Feeling that the break was at hand, police questioned
Wolter when he revived, but he still insisted he was inno-
cent. He explained he had fainted from the shock of
learning that his girl had doubts about him.

Wolter's father at first agreed that his son must be
guilty. He said he had been what we now call a problem
child. The boy had left home at an early age and although
he had held no known job, had managed to get along.
But as Wolter continued to insist that he was innocent,
his father changed his mind and retained W. D. Scott, a
prominent criminal lawyer, to defend him. It was Scott,
incidentally, who had married Blanche Cheseborough
after he helped her get her divorce from Roland Mol-
ineux.

Public sympathy also began to build up for the golden-
haired, rosy-cheeked youth with the innocent, boyish
face. A wealthy woman, who remained anonymous, gave
money for the defense. Although it was believed to have
been Mrs. John Murray Mitchell of Tuxedo Park, her sec-
retary denied it. Mrs. Mitchell was silent. Wolter's parents
began receiving cards of sympathy from strangers in
which they berated the police and the district attorney
for trying to railroad an innocent boy.

The trial started off in an atmosphere of hysteria.
Women of all ages stormed the courtroom for a glimpse
of Wolter. His photograph had been published in the
papers and his angelic appearance stirred at least the

98 IT'S TIME To TELL

maternal instincts of these women. We are more familiar
with these orgiastic manifestations today where bobby
soxers and mature women seem to lose emotional control
at the sight of singing stars and movie idols, but it was
a new experience in 1910.

The prosecution quietly went ahead presenting its
case. Katchen Muller was placed on the stand. The girl,
who had written to Wolter, "You have been so good-
hearted to me," was given an opportunity to explain.
In a low and reluctant voice she admitted she had sup-
ported Wolter from her meager earnings as a salesgirl
in a confectionery store. She had to leave her job when
she found she was pregnant with his child. On the night
of the murder she had slept with Wolter in his Seventy-
fifth Street apartment. The charred corpse was then out
on the fire escape. If he were guilty, he had raped a girl
earlier that day.

Police furnished details of their long search for Abner
without finding a single trace that any such person existed.

Then Dr. Huntington took the stand. We in the cor-
oner's office had been looking forward to this moment.
The anatomy expert said he had examined the remains
of the body found in and near the Wolter apartment.
He had made a study of the color and texture of the
hair of the victim from strands adhering to the scalp
and from fragments found in the fireplace. He held up
one of the fragments and showed the jury that the girl's
hair had been dark auburn. He testified that the girl's
left hand had been tightly clenched and he demonstrated
what he meant.

"You have produced what you say is the remnant of
a hand?"

Retribution 99

"Yes, sir; there are some hairs attached to it."
"Were there any marks o fire on the hairs?"
"Only on the protuding portions of the hair."
Dr. Huntington then produced the left hand of the
girl, still clenched as he had first seen it. There were
singed edges of hair in the fist that appeared to be black.
Dr. Huntington explained that he had articulated the
bones so that the clenched fist could be opened. He slowly
opened the hand, and ten strands of the singed hair came
into view. The unburned portions were a bright lemon
yellow, the exact shade of Wolter's blond hair. He had
described the mysterious Frank Abner as having dark
hair.

Wolter was found guilty of first-degree murder.
When he was brought into court for sentence the fol-
lowing month, only a handful of women were in the
court and none displayed any sympathy to the still pink-
cheeked prisoner. Before passing sentence, Judge War-
ren W. Foster told the prisoner:

"The crime for which you have been convicted at-
tracted the attention of the whole world, and by its very
enormity caused many to doubt your sanity. I have care-
fully observed you and your conduct in court during
the entire week of the trial, and I have detected nothing
whatsoever to indicate that you are not sane under the
law.

"In addition, I instructed Dr. Maguire, the Tombs'
physician, to make a special examination of you, and also
requested that a distinguished scientist be present during
the trial to serve you.

"The impressions of Dr. Maguire and Dr. Tracy, which
will be filed' with the papers in your case, confirm my

ioo IT'S TIME To TELL

impression that yon are morally and legally responsible
for the crime whereof you are charged, and of which
you have been convicted. It now only remains for the
court to impose its final judgment of death."

While being taken to Sing Sing, Wolter showed detec-
tives a letter he had received from Katchen Muller in
which the girl asked if he could marry her in prison for
the sake of their unborn child.

'I'll marry her if they'll let me/' he remarked. "It's
due her and I feel very kindly toward her. Poor girl/*

"Don't you feel sorry for Ruth Wheeler?" he was
asked.

"Of course I do. I feel sorry for her, and for her family.
But I am innocent and this will be proved. Abner will
be found. I have given a full description of him to the
police. Plenty of money has been supplied."

Abner was never found. Not from that day to this.
Although hundreds of columns of newspaper space were -
devoted to the case, not only in New York but through-
out the country and abroad, no one ever came forward
to say that he knew or had heard of a Frank Abner, a
German waiter who once worked in Coney Island.

An appeal for a new trial was denied and so was Katie
Muller's plea for a wedding ring.

Albert Wolter became the youngest person, at that
time, to die in the electric chair.

Perhaps you would not have voted to convict if you
had been on the Wolter jury. Perhaps you believe there
was a Frank Abner.

As for me, I believe that Albert Wolter was a sadistic,
cruel killer who would have murdered other girls if he
had not been caught at that time. Since that afternoon

Retribution 101

when in a dingy police station I helped open the sack
containing the ravished and abused body of Ruth
Wheeler, I have felt that Wolter received his just pun-
ishment. Time has not mellowed my feelings about this
case, I still feel so today.

CHAPTER SIX

"There Oughta Be a Law"

FIVE SHOTS FIRED BY A

maniac caused me to become the father of the Sullivan
Law, "1897," as it is known to law enforcement officials.
More than fifty years have passed now since Section 1897
of the penal law was enacted and New York became the
first state with effective means of clamping down on the
indiscriminate purchase of firearms. No one disputes
today that Section 1897 has been of tremendous useful-
ness, yet only a few states have followed suit with really
efficient laws. Public indifference or ignorance, plus the
rapacious greed of a small group of men, still gives the
underworld a free pass to plunder, rob and kill.

It was on the morning of January 23, 1911, that David
Graham Phillips, a talented writer who had earned both
critical acclaim and popular applause, was shot down
as he was about to enter The Players Club in the
Gramercy Park section of the city. Witnesses had noticed

102

"There Oughta Be a Law' 9 103

a man loitering about the entrance for some time. When
Phillips approached, this man yanked a pistol out of his
pocket, pumped five shots into the writer and then, turn-
ing the weapon upon himself, sent the sixth shot crashing
into his own brain.

The dead assassin was Fitzhugh Coyle Goldsborough,
thirty years old, a member of the Harvard class of 1901,
a composer and an accomplished violinist. He was a
descendant of one of the oldest families in Virginia and
Maryland.

Although the two men lived near each other, Phillips
did not know Goldsborough, had never met him, and
there was no reason why the demented man should have
had any grievance against the author. Yet the shooting
was deliberate; Goldsborough had taken the trouble to
learn that Phillips made a daily visit to his club, where he
usually had lunch, and had lain in wait for him.

While being rushed to the hospital, Phillips recalled
that he had received several anonymous threatening let-
ters. He had dismissed them as either from a crackpot
or from a friend with a macabre seiise of humor.

4 'I could fight two wounds, but not five," he said in the
ambulance. "I guess the odds against me are too great/*
Those were his last words.

There was little that we could do in the coroner's office.
Both men were dead. A notebook found in Goldsbor-
ough's pockets contained many incoherent entries,
indicating that he had been mentally unbalanced. One
notation read, "I deem Mr. Phillips an enemy to society
and a personal enemy to myself." Perhaps it is fortunate
that Goldsborough turned the pistol on himself and had
not escaped, because his notebook indicated that he had

104 IT ' S TIME To TELL

compiled a lengthy list of public figures he disliked, in-
cluding Theodore Roosevelt, of whom he wrote: "An
example of evolution from Politics to Barbarism."

At the inquest we learned that only a few hours before
the shooting Goldsborough had bought the revolver he
used. He picked it up in a pawnshop for a few dollars.
There had been no difficulty. He simply walked in,
selected the weapon he wanted, paid for it and walked
out. Anybody, man, woman or child, could have done
the same: there were no laws and no restrictions at that
time on the sale of deadly firearms. A section of Park
Row was lined with pawnshops whose windows displayed
a wide variety of guns priced from three to six dollars.
I recall one on display that also had a hidden knife, offer-
ing its fortunate owner a choice of how to kill. The pawn-
brokers, naturally, featured the firearms as defensive
weapons.

Although I knew Phillips only slightly, I was deeply
shocked by his senseless death. He had many productive
years ahead of him and might have reached the greatness
and brilliance critics were predicting for him and thus
enriched our literature.

For some time I had been disturbed by this free and
easy access by anybody to firearms. On more than one
occasion I had investigated a suicide where a man, dis-
traught by a sudden business reverse, had dashed into a
pawnshop, even swapping his watch for a pistol, gone
to the nearest alley and shot himself. Had these men
taken time to think, to calm down, they could have called
on friends or relatives to tide them over and, in many
instances, these setbacks would have been of a temporary
. Even more importantly, if firearms were not so

"There Oughta Be a Law" 1 05

readily available, they would have had time to think
things over. When I asked some of these dealers why they
had sold guns to men in such obviously distressed condi-
tion, they simply shrugged and remarked that it wasn't
their business what a customer did with a weapon; they
only sold them. I can't say I approved their callous atti-
tude.

I checked our office figures for the year just ended.
In Manhattan^ Brooklyn and the Bronx there had been
177 murders by firearms in 1910. Inquiring further at
police headquarters, I learned that less than half of the
killers had been caught, but what was even more dis-
turbing was the information that during the year there
also had been 912 arrests for carrying concealed weapons,
mainly pistols. We all know that arrests in any category
represent only a small number of the actual offenders.
This meant that there were many thousands of armed
men roaming the streets of the city. Firearms were avail-
able not only to respectable citizens but to the criminal
element and the mentally disturbed. While there was a
law against carrying concealed weapons, it wasn't worth
the ink used to print it since it did not prevent anybody
from buying firearms. And it was only a minor violation,
a misdemeanor, if you were caught.

To me, it seemed that the law in existence was a perfect
example of attacking a problem backwards. The law
should have prevented the easy purchase of firearms
rather than slightly slap a man on the wrist for carrying
a pistol around. We had progressed a long way since our
frontier days. There were no hostile Indians lurking
behind trees in Manhattan, or anywhere else at that time,
and even the Wild West days now were over. With law

106 IT'S TIME To TELL

and order operating everywhere, there just was no logical
reason for an ordinary man to walk about armed, I
reasoned that the time had come to have legislation passed
that would prevent the sale of pistols to irresponsible
persons. In the vernacular of that day, "There oughta
be a law."

My first step was to sound out the political possibilities,
and I consulted Timothy D. (Big Tim) Sullivan, a state
senator, a district leader and one of the power bosses of
Tammany Hall. If he approved, I knew that the entire
city delegation would fall in line and also that many
upstate Republicans, out of their affection for Big Tim,
would vote for the bill. Sullivan was a colorful political
figure who was idolized along the Bowery and the lower
East Side, where he was also known as the "Big Fella/'
It has been said, and never disputed, that he had the
largest personal following of any political leader in the
history of the city.

Sullivan was surprisingly enthusiastic about my
thought. At first he wanted to amend the penal code to
make it a felony to carry a pistol without a permit. I
pointed out to him that this still would not prevent crim-
inals, those bent on suicide, and the insane from buying
weapons anyway. He then told me to draft a bill I liked
and he would introduce it.

While Sullivan's personal reasons for wanting the law
did not exactly coincide with mine, they were logical and
cogent. The lower East Side then was the headquarters
for many of the infamous gangs of the city. There were
constant fights among them for control of specific territory
with many murders resulting from these gang wars.
Neither the police nor the public cared very much, as

"There Oughta Be a Law" 107

long as gangsters were killing each other, but far too
often innocent bystanders got in the way and also were
killed.

"I'll do anything to stop those shootings by gangsters/'
Sullivan told me. "It's terrible when an innocent person
gets killed. Everybody runs to me and they want me to
have the cops do something, as if the police weren't busy
with it anyway. But even when gangsters kill each other
I still have troubles. If the police make an arrest, the
friends and relatives come knocking on my door for me
to get a lawyer or arrange bail. And they're hardly out
of the door when the relatives of the victim come to me
for a contribution to pay for his burial/'

Big politicians, it seems, also have their problems.

Even though I now had Sullivan's backing, experience
had taught me that I needed public support as well to
make certain the bill would pass. I had no illusions that
my name would mean much to newspaper editors if I
issued an appeal for such a law; the story, if used, would
probably wind up back among the classified ads.

I sat down and wrote personal letters to twenty prom-
inent men, known and respected by the public for their
interest in the welfare of the people. My list included
John D. Rockefeller Jr., John Wanamaker, Nathan
Straus, Hudson Maxim, the inventor, Jacob Schiff, the
banker, Dr. Simon Baruch, the father of Bernard Baruch,
Bishop Grier, among others.

All of them promptly agreed to serve on a committee,
and the first meeting was held on February 14, 1911, only
three weeks after Phillips had been killed. I outlined
the bill I had in mind and told them that if such a law
had been in force then, the insane musician could not

io8 IT'S TIME To TELL

have bought the pistol he used to kill the writer. The bill
would require that any person buying a pocket-sized gun
would have to have a permit, and this permit would be
issued by the police department. Since police themselves
often were the targets of armed gunmen, I knew they
would investigate thoroughly any applicant for a pistol
permit. The bill also provided that dealers in firearms
would have to be licensed, that each weapon would have
to be registered, that a sale could be made only upon
presentation of a permit, and accurate records would
have to be kept so the purchase of any gun could be
traced. The committee approved and we formed the
Legislation League for the Conservation of Human Life.
I was named secretary.

The opposition I expected began soon after Senator
Sullivan introduced the bill. It came from three main
sources the arms manufacturers, the hardware dealers,
most of whom handled firearms, and the pawnbrokers.
There are times when a pawnbroker can be a necessity;
there are other occasions when, to my untutored eye, he
appears more of a necessary evil, but the opposition of a
small but vociferous group of them against the bill was
pure evil. It was not the loss of the sale of a few pistols
that was bothering this particular group, but a scheme
that was netting them very much more.

Known criminals had found a way to avoid any em-
barrassing search by a police officer. Rather than carry
their guns around with them, they had developed the
habit of keeping them permanently in pawn. When they
were ready to commit a crime, they redeemed their guns,
and as soon as it was over hurried back to rid themselves
of the weapons. If it was "hot," had been used in a

"There Oughta Be a Law" 109

shooting, the obliging pawnbroker would bury it in his
vault for them while baffled police searched elsewhere
for the weapon. The busier a criminal, the more often he
was paying his redemption fees, which made it a profit-
able business for the pawnbrokers. Some of them kept
open nights to accommodate their nocturnal customers.
Other criminals did not even bother owning firearms.
They would "buy" a pistol from the pawnbroker for the
job and then go through the motions of pawning it when
the job was finished, counting the difference in what
they paid and received as part of the overhead of con-
ducting their business. In reality, these pawnbrokers
were running an arsenal business for the underworld,
supplying them with weapons for a good rental fee for a
few hours. Not all pawnbrokers, of course, engaged in
such shady practices.

To offset this opposition, I enlisted the support of all
the criminal court judges and the district attorney and
they came out solidly in favor of the bill. In addition,
the members of the citizens' committee now went to work,
and some of them visited newspaper publishers and
editors and others wrote letters urging approval of the
proposed legislation. The leading newspapers in the city,
the Times, the Sun, the Herald, and the Hearst news-
papers, all carried editorials supporting the measure.

When the senate codes committee held a public hear-
ing, I appeared and spoke in favor of the bill. The only
opponents present were representatives of the pistol
manufacturers and the pawnbrokers. Many of the hard-
ware dealers had dropped out of the fight; some of them
had been robbery victims and they were in favor of the
bill. Those among them who wanted to handle firearms

no IT'S TIME To TELL

had no objections to being licensed. The senate com-
mittee voted to present the bill.

When Big Tim Sullivan said he would work for the
measure, he meant it and made what was for him almost
a supreme sacrifice. Although he had served for years in
both the state assembly and the senate, and as a congress-
man in Washington, he rarely ever spoke out on the floor
for or against a measure. He preferred to work quietly
in the background. Even the official biography he had
furnished the Congressional Record was in keeping with
his desire to remain mute. It was the shortest ever printed
and read in its entirety: "Timothy D. Sullivan, Demo-
crat of New York."

But Big Tim announced he would take the floor and
speak out for the bill that bears his name. Members of
the assembly deserted their branch to come over and
listen to Sullivan make a speech. While it may not meet
the approval of language purists, his listeners knew it
came from his heart, and it deserves being printed. Here
is what he told his attentive audience, including a packed
gallery:

"Last Saturday night, there was a couple of gangs
fighting on the street. A mother with a baby in her arms
came along and was shot dead. That, alone, ought to
pass this bill. No, I ain't alone in wanting to pass this
little measure. There's a lot of other people in the city.
Here's a little list. There's the City Club, and District
Attorney Whitman, and Police Commissioner Cropsey,
and the American Museum of Safety, and Jacob H. Schiff,
and Henry Clews, and Isaac Seligman and Rockefeller "
Sullivan paused here, grinned and then added in a stage
whisper, "That's John D. Junior, a social acquaintance

"There Oughta Be a Law' 9 1 1 1

of mine." His next few words were lost in the sound of
laughter. ". . . and there's Judge Foster and the judges
of every criminal court in the city. Then there's Nathan
Straus. I suppose, maybe, that man stands for good, eh?
Down my way, they think he almost stands in the foot-
steps of the Man who came on earth two thousand years
ago, because of what he's done for the poor. This is a
bill against murder. I don't know much about the Bible
except what I've heard Brother Brackett parlaying on
me for the last twenty-four years and that's so much
I feel as I'd read the whole book. But if this bill passes
it will do more to carry out that commandment, 'Thou
shalt not kill/ and save more souls than all the talk of
all the ministers and priests in the state for the next ten
years."

Sullivan sat down to a roaring ovation for the longest
speech he had ever delivered to a legislative body. Five
minutes later the senate passed the bill with only five
dissenting votes. It also was passed by the assembly, signed
by the governor and became the law.

Encouraged by this action, our committee now tried
to get similar legislation passed in adjacent states, hoping
to cut off the flow of guns to the underworld, but the
arms manufacturers now were thoroughly alarmed and
began an active campaign wherever such bills were in-
troduced. Massachusetts passed a watered-down version
which I do not think is as effective.

In 1925, Franklin D. Roosevelt organized the National
Crime Commission and asked me to serve on a committee
to draft model legislation along the lines of the Sullivan
Law to be introduced in all state legislatures. No state
accepted the bill with all its restrictions against the easy

112 IT'S TIME To TELL

purchase of firearms, a few passed weakened measures
that leave large loopholes, and guns still may be pur-
chased in many states with little more trouble than in
buying a package of cigarettes. The pistol makers and
the small-town hardware merchants in these states are
still resisting any efforts to protect the lives of innocent
people.

Whether these merchants realize it or not, they are
serving as a pipeline in furnishing guns to the criminal
element of the country. Quite often when police find
guns on gangsters the identifying serial number has
been filed down. This leads many people to believe that
the guns have been stolen and the numbers erased to
prevent identification. Police science today, through
chemicals and photography, can restore these numbers,
and quite often it turns out that these guns were pur-
chased originally in a state with ineffective laws or none
against acquiring firearms. Many such guns were not
stolen; the underworld was trying to hide its source of
supply. The merchants are honest, they sincerely believe
they are making a legitimate sale, but they are so blinded
by the dollar bill in their hands that they fail to realize
the implications of the sale. The pistol which killed
Arnold Rothstein, the notorious gambler, was traced to
Minnesota, but the trail ended there because there was
no effective law. Had there been such a law, police could
have learned who bought the weapon and perhaps this
murder might have been solved.

When Mayor Cermak of Chicago was fatally shot by
an assassin who intended the bullet for President-elect
Roosevelt, the killer told police that he had purchased
the gun in a Miami pawnshop for eight dollars. It is diffi-

"There Oughta Be a Law 39 1 1 3

cult to balance a few dollars' profit against a human life.
The cry raised most frequently against legislation to
curtail the purchase of firearms is that it violates the
Constitution, which guarantees everybody the right to
bear arms. The Sullivan Law does not restrict the pur-
chase of rifles and shotguns which are used for hunting,
nor does it prevent a reputable citizen who needs a gun
from obtaining a permit. It is aimed specifically at keep-
ing small pocket-size pistols from the hands of men who
would use them to shoot down human prey. The con-
stitutionality of the Sullivan Law was upheld many times
by the court of appeals, and the American Bar Associa-
tion, after the passage of the law, endorsed it as a sound
and salutary measure.

If I had my way, I would have the law be even more
restrictive. I do not think it is wise for permits to be
issued to anybody outside of law enforcement officials and
guards. In my own experience, I saw many storekeepers
who obtained permits and bought guns to protect them-
selves against holdups. When I saw them, they were dead,
beaten to the draw by the bandit who already had his
hand on the trigger. I would advise store owners to
investigate the cost of robbery insurance. It may not be
as expensive as they think. Guns are not cheap either.
An insurance policy can be canceled when a business is
sold; nothing can restore a life when an owner leaves it
in a morgue wagon. Each year there are many tragedies
in homes where pistol permits were granted; a couple
will quarrel and because there is a gun at hand, a shot
will be fired; or the exploring fingers of a child will find
a gun hidden in a drawer or closet, and the tragic after-
math is a familiar story to any newspaper reader. Even

ii4 IT ' S TIME To TELL

adults can accidentally wreck their lives when there is a
gun at hand. A few years ago the wife of a prominent
social figure awoke in her Long Island home, thought
she heard a prowler and shot at a figure. She killed her
husband, who, unable to sleep, was walking around in
the dark.

The campaign to get the Sullivan Law passed in New
York had taken only a few months. I now turned to an-
other problem that I optimistically thought would be
far simpler, the mounting number of automobile deaths.

I doubt that any present-day reader objects to the fact
that he must pass an examination in order to obtain a
license to operate a motor vehicle. He knows that it offers
double protection to himself and his family in keeping
incompetent drivers off the road. In fact, there is a move*
ment now under way for periodic re-examination of
drivers to make certain that they maintain a standard of
skills.

But at that time only professional chauffeurs had to
be licensed in New York. Anybody else could enter an
automobile showroom, buy a car and drive it out even
if he did not know the difference between a brake and a
gas pedal. There was no control of any kind over private
drivers,

For a time, police automatically arrested the driver
in any accident involving a fatality, and he was released
in one thousand dollars' bail until the inquest. Since, as
part of my work, I was present at all of these inquests,
I was impressed by the testimony of witness after witness
in the various cases saying that drivers not only were
careless but that many of them did not know how to
drive. More than a few testified that they had just Bought

"There Oughta Be a Law" 115

the car, received oral instructions that lasted a minute
or two from the salesman, and driven off with no actual
lessons. Confronted with an emergency, many of them
froze behind the wheel and lost control of the car. Pedes-
trians had to be alert even when walking on the sidewalk.
As the accidents continued to rise, the police force was
losing so many man-hours in making automatic arrests
that they stopped even this slight safety measure and
simply handed a summons to the driver to appear at the
inquest. Without any license to show, some drivers gave
a false name and did not bother to show up at the inquest.
The Legislation League for the Conservation of
Human Life, which had been formed to fight for the
Sullivan Law, took up the battle against automobile
fatalities. We asked for the licensing of all drivers, with
revocation or suspension penalties for cause, and also
for the establishment of a traffic court and for a bureau
where records would be kept. We asked, but nothing
happened. In 1914, after more than one hundred school
children had been killed the previous year, I appeared
before the Federation of Women's Clubs and asked for
their support. They gave it and it now meant that eighty
thousand women were actively backing the campaign.
Certain now that success was in sight, I went to Albany
and asked a friendly legislator to introduce a bill. Still
nothing happened. Year after year the bill was introduced.
Newspapers by now were actively backing the campaign.
They began by running lists of names of people killed
and injured but soon had to drop that practice because
they would have had room for little else. They switched
to printing a running box score. Perhaps motorists
thought it was a sporting challenge, because the death toll

n6 IT'S TIME To TELL

continued to rise and still nothing happened in legislative
session after legislative session.

I have one of the box scores at hand. It deals only with
New York City automobile accidents and reads: "Killed
last year, 1,073. Injured last year, 29,346." Such figures
horrified me because it was such a futile waste of lives
and senseless maiming of so many people by unlicensed
drivers, but apparently the totals caused no qualms to the
automobile dealers who were fighting as hard as they
could, making regular trips to the state capitol where
they wined and dined legislators and convinced them not
to pass the bill. It wasn't until 1922, after I made a per-
sonal appeal to Governor Alfred E. Smith and he placed
the full pressure of his office behind the legislation, that
the state finally enacted a law requiring drivers to pass a
test and be licensed. The act also established the State
Motor Vehicle Bureau. I do not think that the passage of
the bill harmed the automobile dealers and I have a faint
suspicion that their sales did not decline and the industry
wither on the vine after that date.

I shudder whenever I hear anybody speak nostalgically
about streetcars and voice a wish that they could be
brought back. My campaign to get streetcars replaced by
buses in New York took even longer than the one to
license motorists. Statistics are dull figures, but sometimes
they can illuminate important facts. As part of my work
with the coroner's office and the succeeding office of the
medical examiner, I kept a close watch on all deaths. It
was by breaking down the automobile deaths that I
noticed that many more fatalities were occurring on
streets with surface lines than on any other. The reason
is almost self-evident. Streetcars in New York City ran

"There Oughta Be a Law" 1 1 7

in the middle of the street. Passengers getting on and
off had to step out into the street. Each corner only multi-
plied the chances for accidents by oncoming vehicles.
Buses, which could pull up at the curb, were far safer,
and I urged the elimination of the fixed trolley tracks
and the substitution of buses. A few brief extracts from
newspaper clippings tell the story of futility:

New York Journal, January 24, 1923:

Motor accident fatalities could be set down thirty per cent if
surface cars were eliminated and buses substituted, according to
George P. LeBrun, secretary of the Chief Medical Examiner's
office. For ten years Mr. LeBrun has made a study of traffic acci-
dents in this city.

The last sentence was an oblique reference to the fact
that I now had been conducting this same campaign for
ten years.

New York Times, January, 1929:

Death by motor vehicles in New York could be cut down from
fifty to sixty per cent, if surface cars were eliminated, LeBrun
estimates, declaring that few motorcar fatalities occur on Fifth
Avenue, where buses are used, despite its enormous traffic. The
average of fatalities for the last fifteen years has been four or
five cases a year on Fifth Avenue, as compared with forty-one
at crossings on Third Avenue in a single year.

It was the same old story, just new death totals, year after
year.

Some twenty years after I began my campaign, and
after the inexcusable loss of thousands of lives, streetcars

u8 IT'S TIME To TELL

finally began to be replaced by buses. I have no nostalgic
regrets at their departure.

Our office also had difficulties with manufacturers
whose products were poisonous when swallowed. Even
though they were not selling their product to be taken
internally, they felt that placing the word "poison" on
the label or container would be a sure road to bank-
ruptcy. A weak law was passed, and the makers of such
products became artful dodgers in masking the fact that
the word was there. State Senator James Murtha of upstate
New York came to the city to attend a banquet. He was
not feeling well and sent a bellboy to a drugstore for a
popular headache remedy. The drug clerk made an error
and handed over a similarly colored tin container that
was a poisonous insect destroyer. The bellboy received
his tip and departed.

If Senator Murtha noticed that the tin was not the
brand he had requested, he probably reasoned that the
druggist was sold out of that make and had given him a
substitute. There was nothing about the package to warn
the casual user that it contained poison. The trade name
was innocuous and gave no indication of its purpose. A
short time after taking a teaspoon in water, he became
violently ill and sent for the house doctor. He died within
an hour or so. I accompanied the corner on the investiga-
tion. The tin can containing the poison was a masterpiece
of art work and deception. The law required the word
"poison" but laid down no rules. The design on the can
resembled elaborate filigree, and it took us some fifteen
minutes of careful study to find the word "poison" hidden
amid the filigree work.

I took the can and showed it to Al Smith, then an

"There Oughta Be a Law" 1 19

assemblyman, and asked him to prepare a bill requiring
the word "poison" to be prominently displayed in large
uncluttered type. The sorrowing legislators, who had
lost one of their own members, promptly passed the bill.
I do not believe that any of the campaigns I conducted
to help save lives has ever placed an unfair burden on a
reputable business. The opposition always was based on
fear and not clear thinking, and a failure to understand
that a human life can be important.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Lonely Crowd

MY INTEREST IN SAVING

lives has led me into many strange byways, so it is not
surprising that I am actively associated with the National
Save-A-Life League, dedicated to trying to prevent sui-
cides.

Any big city attracts its share of the young and hope-
ful. The old bromide is that they are seeking fame and
fortune. Of course, a good many are, but a surprisingly
large number never had or have their sights set that
high; the city represents excitement, gaiety, a chance to
make a fresh start in new surroundings, something which
they thought that the lonely areas or the small towns in
which they lived did not provide.

And for some of them, particularly in a place like New
York, the city does not answer their dreams; they find
they are even lonelier in the crowds than they were in
their small places back home where they at least were

120

The Lonely Crowd 121

among friends and relatives. Daily they watch thousands
upon thousands of people hurrying to and from work,
dashing in and out of subways, racing along the streets.
Everybody seems to be going someplace, doing something,
and they have nothing but the sanctuary of some small,
ill-furnished room. And it is then that their thoughts
turn to suicide. What they don't realize is that many of
the crowd they see dashing, racing, and hurrying by are
just as lonely as they are; New Yorkers just don't seem
to slow down; even funeral corteges hurry along.

Defoe seemed to realize this when he made loneliness
one of the greatest problems with which Robinson Crusoe
had to contend. And since Defoe knew his London well*
he may have been drawing freely on his own experiences
and observations in that large city.

Loneliness is not the leading cause of suicide in New
York, but it is one of the major causes and one of the
saddest. Over the thirty-six-year span I was with the
coroner's and medical examiner's office, I found that
business reverses was the leading cause for suicide among
men.

One of the strangest aspects of suicide is that many vic-
tims have selected the most painful ways in which to die.

During the Gay Nineties, many people, particularly
women, selected carbolic acid. I can't explain it. It is
a terrible and agonizing way to die. At that time there
were no restrictions whatever upon the sale of this poison,
and any pharmacy would sell enough for a dime to kill
several people.

Suicide by carbolic acid was intimately associated with
one of the worst plague spots of New York's gaslight
era; McGurk's saloon on the Bowery. It got so infamous

is>$> IT'S TIME To TELL

that it became better known as Suicide Hall. There were
many cesspools that masqueraded as saloons, but Mc-
Gurk's was just about the bottom of the ladder. It was
frequented by the dregs among streetwalkers whose only
chance at plying their trade was to find a newly landed
sailor who had not seen a woman for over a year, and for
some unfathomable reason McGurk's was a favorite place
for many sailors.

McGurk's started on its way to its peculiar fame as
Suicide Hall because of a botched-up job. A prostitute
named "Big Mame" bought some carbolic acid, emptied
the vial into a glass of water and then attempted to down
it in McGurk's. A watching man, suspecting what was
happening, knocked the glass out of her hand. Some of the
liquid spilled on her face, burning her horribly, but he
saved her life. But one of Big Mame's friends was more
successful and the cycle began.

At the coroner's office we became all too familiar with
the routine at Suicide Hall. Some unfortunate girl would
become despondent, she would visit a drugstore con-
veniently located several doors away, return to her table
and swallow the poison.

Then there would be a call for the coroner. He would
arrive, discover that it was another suicide and order the
body sent to the morgue, quite often with a Jane Doe tag.
These women were known by their nicknames; no one
knew their real names.

McGurk never seemed to mind the suicides. Often the
dancing and the drinking would be going on while police
and the coroner were inspecting the body. In fact, as the
evil reputation of the place spread, it became fashionable
for the "swells" from uptown to go slumming and visit

The Lonely Crowd 123

McGurk's. Some of them probably got the thrill they
were looking for when some poor unfortunate drank
carbolic acid while they were present.

In 1899 there were 238 suicides in which carbolic acid
was used; this, of course, was throughout the city and not
just at McGurk's. I did help make it difficult for those
who wanted to die downing carbolic acid. I called the
attention of the board of coroners to the great number of
deaths by this easily obtainable poison, and at the urging
of the coroners, the city health department finally passed
a regulation forbidding the sale of the poison without a
doctor's certificate. It is interesting to note that less than
a handful of suicides now die each year by drinking car-
bolic acid.

Until the change-over to natural gas in New York City,
illuminating gas was the favorite method of suicides. It
was right at hand, and to hurry up the process many
would place their heads inside the oven.

Until the Sullivan Law was passed, ending the easy
access to fire arms, suicide by shooting was second on the
list. We frequently found a pawn ticket for a watch or a
piece of jewelry that the suicide had pledged in order to
buy the pistol from the same pawnshop.

Few forms of deaths are so terrible as the plunge from
a great height, yet this form of suicide has been growing
steadily in popularity. Hardly a skyscraper in New York
has escaped having its suicides, and special guards are
kept on duty on the top of the Empire State Building to
prevent jumpers.

A suicide is running from himself and seldom wants to
harm anybody else, but the plunge from a height can be
dangerous to others* Many pedestrians have died by being

124 IT ' S TlME To TELL

struck by falling bodies. I have seen some plummeting
bodies that have actually made holes in sidewalks and
have smashed through or badly dented the steel tops o
automobiles. About the only thing that can be said for
this form of suicide is that it is rarely unsuccessful.

The stock market crash and the depression aftermath
began one of the worst suicide periods in the city's his-
tory. The figures speak for themselves. In 1927, a normal
suicide year in New York, there were 879 such deaths.
The stock market crash occurred in October, 1929. That
year the total suicides had increased to 1,312. There was
a steady climb upward after that, and by 1934 the total
was 1,378. By 1935 we were beginning to pull out of the
depression, and the total declined somewhat to 1,158. I
selected at random a figure from the 1950*5 and it was
716, showing how prosperous times bring a decline in
such deaths.

One of the most unusual series followed the failure of
an old banking house. Three members of the family
killed themselves within days of each other.

In most instances when wealthy men jumped or fell
from high buildings, the families always insisted that it
was an accident. The marked increase in leaps from tall
buildings began with the stock market crash. Perhaps the
brokers still were playing percentages. It is always difficult
to prove the death was deliberate without the testimony of
eyewitnesses or the presence of a note. Families have more
than just the stigma of suicide to worry about when they
insist upon having it called an accident. Quite often the
dead person carried a substantial amount of life insurance
that had clauses invalidating the policy in case of suicide
but providing double indemnity in case of accidental

The Lonely Crowd 125

death. Where we were uncertain, we would list it as
"jumped or fell/' and leave it to the insurance companies
to battle the families.

Suicides frequently seem to be imitative; the run of
carbolic acid deaths indicated that, but there is other
proof as well. On many occasions we would find news-
paper clippings in pockets or purses describing a similar
type of suicide. I recall one case that occurred prior to
the Sullivan Law where the wife of a man who had killed
himself asked for the gun as a keepsake. We were unsus-
pecting and gave it to her. She went home and used the
same gun on herself. A noted Davis Cup tennis player
killed himself, and a few days later another tennis player
jumped from the roof of the building where he lived.

Statistics indicate that hotel suicides are now decreasing
in New York. For years such deaths were the bane of
hotel managers. There is little a hotel can do if a guest
checks in and then uses his room to destroy himself.
Hotels fear such publicity because it may drive prospec-
tive guests away and sometimes it attracts others bent on
killing themselves, adding to the hotel's woes. One of the
worst-afflicted hotels was the old Grand Union, which was
opposite Grand Central station. Every time I entered this
hotel with a coroner, Sim Ford, the owner, would com-
ment audibly, profanely and sadly on the topic of why
more suicides had to pick his hotel than any other in
New York. And there just was no apparent reason. The
area was dotted with other hotels just as convenient, just
as nicely furnished. Perhaps there was something sym-
bolic in the fact that the entrance to the station, a de-
parture point, could be seen from the rooms facing the
street.

is>6 IT'S TIME To TELL

Women are less inclined to suicide than men. The most
generally accepted reason is that women have more
capacity for suffering. I believe a more important reason
is that fewer women meet with business reverses, which
is still the primary reason for suicides. This picture may
change with the steady increase in the number of women
executives. The interesting fact that women are becoming
the dominant owners of stock in corporations may also
alter the statistics in future years.

Most women suicides shy away from the more brutal
forms of death, such as using a gun, a knife or a razor;
they are more likely to use gas or poison. There has been
an increase lately in the number of suicide leaps by
women. The changeover in gas and the difficulty in ob-
taining poison may account for it. Even in suicides
women are vain and seldom mar their faces. Sometimes
they will use a gun to shoot themselves through the heart,
a knife to slash their wrists, but rarely turn the gun on
their heads or slash their throats.

My interest in the Save-A-Life League began in the
early i goo's when the Reverend Harry Marsh Warren
called to see me at the office and explained that he had
formed a society for the prevention of suicides. He was
planning to make this his life's work and he asked me to
notify him of every suicide reported to our office.

His request startled me, and I wondered if I was the
butt of a joke. "I'm afraid it will be a little too late for
you to render any service to the suicide/' I pointed out.

But Dr. Warren was serious. "It might prevent an-
other/' he answered. He told me of a case in which he
had arrived at the home of a suicide to find the wife very
much depressed. Her husband had been ill with an in-

The Lonely Crowd 127

curable disease and he had taken poison to cease being a
burden to her. But the woman felt that there was nothing
left in her life and wanted to join her husband in death.
The minister spent several hours talking to her and fin-
ally convinced her that she should go on living. Since his
experience matched that of our office where we knew that
some suicides would be followed by others in the same
family, I arranged to have him notified of every suicide
reported to our office. He made frequent visits to see me
after that and reported on the results of the visits he made
to the homes. I later became a member of the advisory
committee of his league.

Under the coroner system many cases of suicide were
kept from the newspapers by political or financial influ-
ence. Family physicians often reported such cases but they
were not entered on our books until several days later.
In that way they escaped the daily attention of reporters.
Newsmen always live in the present and never think to
look back to notice if there were any additional entries.
Some of the coroners were not above accepting bribes to
declare suicides as accidents. This was done frequently as
a political favor.

When the office changed to the medical examiner sys-
tem, Dr. Charles Norris put an immediate halt to any
such practise. All deaths were handled in a routine,
orderly fashion, and the records were always kept in
order. He played fair with the press and the public, and
no amount of pressure could get him to list a death as an
accident where it had been a suicide. Unless there was
convincing evidence, he would order a thorough autopsy,
and more than a few cases of seeming suicide developed
into cases of murder.

IT'S TIME To TELL

Dr. Norris once remarked that every being is a poten-
tial suicide. "No one escapes moments of extreme depres-
sion, but it's only the borderline person who kills himself.
The strong person never does/'

If you read biographies of noted persons, you often will
find them mention that at some depressed period in their
lives they contemplated suicide but they held back and
went on to great accomplishments.

Some years ago Dr. Warren issued a leaflet entitled,
'Tacts Briefly Stated." It is not because I ani quoted in
one of them that I am reproducing some of it here, but
rather because I feel it contains some important and in-
teresting thoughts:

1. Anyone in great trouble minus hope is in great danger, but
anyone in great trouble plus hope is safe. The object of this
work is to instill hope.

2. We agree with Dr. Frederick L. Hoffman, the statistician,
who says, "Suicide more frequently claims the well-to-do, pros-
perous and well-educated, rather than the unfortunate, the igno-
rant and the poor."

3. We believe these words of Hon. H. O. Palmer: "A com-
paratively small number of suicides is attributed to insanity."
Also what Dr. Gray says: "In the majority of cases, suicide is
committed by persons who are entirely sane/'

4. We shall reduce the number of suicides when we reduce
the unrestricted sale of poisons, firearms and other implements
of torture.

5. A few words spoken at the right time and in the right way
will usually inspire courage and hope. Sometimes money is abso-
lutely necessary. We have known of a loan of five dollars to save
a life.

6. The general superintendent of Bellevue Hospital says, "Sui-
cides should be reached before they believe that there is nothing

The Lonely Crowd 129

further in life. I think aid or advice would do much to save
them."

7. If Dr. Lyman Abbott's words be true, "Suicide solves no
problem, ends no experience, brings no possible peace/' then we
should guard any who are morbid. When Lincoln wrote, "I must
die or be better," his friends watched him day and night.

8. Mr. George P. LeBrun is right in saying: "If friends and
kin of those ready to surrender would do their full duty, fewer
would be ready to leave life where love still spoke, shone, sup-
ported and attracted."

A curious fact about suicide is that late Tuesday morn-
ing seems to be the zero hour for the jobless. These people
see the want ads on Sunday, spend Monday going hope-
fully from place to place, and then lose hope on Tuesday
morning.

The prevention of suicide is a matter to which many
thoughtful persons have given their attention. The Salva-
tion Army was the first to develop offices for the purposes
of dealing with persons contemplating suicide, and the
Save-A-Life League has also been active and successful in
this direction.

I know that some people refer scornfully to suicides as
misfits, failures, cowards, but many brave people and
many successful people have killed themselves in a mo-
ment of despair. My own thought is that a person who is
interested in others is less likely to commit suicide. And
a person who is interested in others can help cheer up
somebody who is depressed.

Literature abounds in suicides* Hamlet's great solil-
oquy is concerned with the subject: "To be or not to be,
that is the question."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mafia Vendetta

THE MAFIA IS NOT NEW

in this country. Members of this sinister organization
were among the first wave of Italian immigrants who
came here well before the turn of the century. And they
lost little time in pursuing their familiar practices of
ruling by terror and murder. They preyed on their fellow
countrymen, bewildered in an alien land, unable to speak
the language, and fearful of going to the police. These
people submitted to blackmail demands and allowed this
small minority to wield enormous power. The braver
ones, who attempted to defy the Black Hand, as the Mafia
was popularly called then, were tortured and killed as
examples to others. Some of the Mafia members also were
active in counterfeiting, passing the crude faked money
among their own people, and they silenced those who
complained.

As a result, the coroner's office in New York found itself

130

Mafia Vendetta 131

handicapped whenever we had a case involving members
of the Mafia. Respectable and hard-working Italians,
some of whom I knew personally, would become evasive
or refuse to answer questions; they were too terrified to
speak out, even to those whom they knew and trusted. I
also had difficulty in obtaining a coroner's jury when
prisoners were members of the dreaded Mafia, I saved a
newspaper clipping from one of our early cases and I have
it in front of me now. One paragraph reads:

"All of the sixteen called responded and turned their
subpoenas in to Chief Clerk LeBrun today. When they
learned, however, that they had been summoned to act
as jurors in the Mafia murder mystery, eight of them dis-
appeared and have not since been heard from."

In this particular case, despite brilliant work by Detec-
tive Joseph Petrosino, who headed the Italian squad,
organized specifically by the police department to combat
the Mafia, justice seems to have lost out. The vendetta,
though, took over.

Barrels were a common sight on the streets in the early
part of this century. Food packaging then was in its
infancy, and most staples, like sugar and flour, were
shipped in barrels. Storekeepers would dig into the barrel
with a scoop and weigh out the exact amount the cus-
tomer wanted.

For this reason few pedestrians paid any attention to a
barrel standing on an East Side corner on the morning of
April 13, 1903. A housewife from a near-by tenement,
hurrying to a bakery for morning rolls, noticed that an
overcoat in fairly good condition was on top of the barrel.
On her way back home she passed it again. The coat was
still there and obviously had been abandoned by some-

igs> IT'S TIME To TELL

body. She mentally ran through a list of members of her
family who might use the coat and decided to take a closer
look at it. As she lifted up the garment she glanced down
into the barrel, and her frightened screams brought peo-
ple racing out into the street.

Wedged inside the barrel was the jackknifed body of a
man with only the top of his head and part of his face
visible between his feet. Coroner Scholer and I were just
coming on duty when the report came in. Police were
holding back the large crowd of curiosity seekers that
gathers so quickly in New York, but there was little we
could do at the scene; it was obvious that the killing had
taken place elsewhere and the barrel dumped at the spot
during the night.

Little else was learned at the morgue. When the body
was finally worked loose from the barrel, it was found that
the man's throat had been cut from ear to ear. Other
wounds on his face and head indicated that he might have
been beaten senseless before the killer slashed the jugular
vein. The victim was about forty years old, wore a mus-
tache, and had pierced ears. I suggested that he might
have come from Sicily since it was a custom there for men
to wear rings in their ears*

His pockets were empty except for two handkerchiefs;
one was a regular man's size, while the other was small
and delicately perfumed. The killers had either over-
looked or ignored an unusual crucifix the victim wore on
a fine silver chain around his neck. Below the cross was
a skull and bones. It appeared to be of foreign make and
bore a Latin inscription on a scroll. The man's clothes
were expensive and he was well dressed except for his
shoes, which were old and worn. No labels or identifying

Mafia Vendetta 133

marks were found on his clothes, including his under-
wear. The shoes were of a popular make.

Police considered two theories: the possibility that the
well-dressed victim had been murdered for his money,
even though robbers rarely bother removing identifying
labels from clothing, or else that it had been a love slay-
ing, suggested by the perfumed woman's handkerchief. It
requires considerable strength to cram a doubled-up body
into a barrel, and this indicated that more than one per-
son might have been involved in the murder.

A good description of the murder victim was dis-
tributed to all newspapers, and hundreds of people visited
the morgue, but no one gave any indication of recogniz-
ing the man. His physical characteristics did not match
any on the missing persons' list.

The barrel yielded a possible clue. A code word was
stenciled on the bottom while the number 233 was inked
on the sides, A sugar refinery identified the barrel as part
of a shipment it had made to a wholesaler, who in turn
had sold this particular barrel to a small shop in the Mul-
berry Bend section, in the heart of Little Italy.

The owner was voluble but offered little information.
One barrel looked just like another to him. He followed
the custom of the neighborhood and placed his empties
outside for anyone to take away without charge- Poor
people usually took them home and broke them up for
kindling wood. He had no idea who might have picked
up that particular barrel. He may have been telling the
truth, but on the other hand police learned that his small,
grubby shop was a gathering place for a gang of counter-
feiters, members of the Mafia, who were under surveil-
lance by secret-service agents. If one of these Mafia

134 I T ' S TIME To TELL

members had taken the barrel, the owner would never
have dared tell.

The investigation entered a new phase. Since members
of the Mafia might be involved, Petrosino was assigned
to the case. He was a short, homely man with a pock-
marked face, who was absolutely fearless. He had a deep
contempt and a bitter hatred for members of outlaw or-
ganizations, and took chances that made other members
of the police force blanch. Although he received many
death threats, he preferred working alone and was adept
at simple disguises. He frequently posed as a newly
arrived immigrant and would wander into places con-
trolled by his sworn enemies, where exposure would have
cost him his life. He spoke fluently all the dialects of his
native tongue.

Because of his exploits, he was adored by the mass of
Italian immigrants who were honest, hard-working peo-
ple, and information would be whispered to him that
nobody else could possibly receive.

But there was no information this time for Petrosino
and no identification of the murder victim. Reasoning
that fear still was keeping lips sealed, Petrosino ordered
the arrest of all the eleven counterfeiters who had been
meeting in the shop where the murder barrel came from.
This was the notorious Morello-Lupo-the-Wolf gang.
The men had the usual musical-sounding Italian names,
but while the arresting officers collected an interesting
arsenal of loaded revolvers, knives and stilettos, there was
nothing musical about the chorus of protest from the
prisoners. Hoping that one of the suspects might betray
some knowledge of the crime, Petrosino had all eleven
men brought to the mogue where one by one they were

Mafia Vendetta 155

led in to view the body. Petto the Ox, a big lumbering
man, studied the body closely and then shook his massive
head. "Never saw him before/' he told the detective.

The placing of the eleven men in custody did serve
one purpose for Petrosino. Some tongues loosened a bit,
and he learned that many of these men frequently met
late at night in a small cafe owned by Vita LaDuca, one
of the arrested men, Morello, the gang leader, operated a
spaghetti counter in the rear of this place. On the night
before the body had been found, four men had sat at a
table in LaDuca's cafe. Three of the men were Morello,
Lupo, and Petto the Ox, but there was no identification
of the fourth man. He could have been a relative, a friend,
a business associate, or the man found jackknifed inside
the sugar barrel. Petrosino's informants either did not
know or feigned ignorance.

It was at this point that Petrosino received an anony-
mous letter warning him to discontinue his investigation.
The note implied that the murder had been a vendetta.
Usually a vendetta is an "honor*' slaying for one of two
main reasons, either as punishment for the seduction of
a woman member of a household, or to avenge a death
or a grievous wrong.

Petrosino shrugged off the letter and its implied death
threat to him. He had been stymied in his investigation
in the city and decided to try a new tack. Many counter-
feiters at that time were convicted on state charges and
sent to Sing Sing. Petrosino knew most of these prisoners,
having helped send them there. If the dead man had been
a member of some counterfeiting gang, it was possible
that one of the inmates might recognize him. It was a
break in prison monotony for the men Petrosino inter-

136 IT'S TIME To TELL

viewed, and they welcomed him. He had supplied himself
with bits of news and gossip about their individual neigh-
borhood: the romances, family feuds, descriptions of
decorations at street fiestas, which were important and
highly competitive local events. And during each con-
versation he displayed a morgue photograph of the mur-
der victim. It was the same story all over again; nobody
recognized the man.

The last prisoner he saw was Giuseppe DiPriema, who
was not even on the detective's original list of prisoners to
be questioned. Although DiPriema was a counterfeiter,
he always had worked alone and was not part of any gang.
Petrosino decided to see him as long as he was at the
prison anyway. He went through the same routine, but
this time there was an instant reaction when he showed
the photograph taken in the morgue.

DiPriema moaned and in a torrent of words explained
that the man was Benedetto Madonia, his brother-in-law.
He demanded to know what had happened, but Petrosino
wanted more information first. He asked for a detailed
description. The prisoner mentioned some old scars, which
had been found on the body during the post-mortem. He
said Madonia's ears had been "run through/' meaning
pierced, and he described the crucifix. Asked if his
brother-in-law had worn any other jewelry, the prisoner
said that he always carried a fine gold watch. His sister,
Benedetto's wife, could provide an accurate description
of it. "She loved that watch," he added. Madonia lived
in Buffalo.

Petrosino told the prisoner how the body had been
found in the sugar barrel. DiPriema discounted the per-
fumed handkerchief. He said it either belonged to his

Mafia Vendetta 137

sister or else had been placed in the victim's pocket to
mislead police. "Benedetto was a fine man, a good family
man/' he said. As Petrosino was leaving, the prisoner
grasped the bars of his cell and told the detective, "I get
even with who killed him. I swear a vendetta."

Petrosino returned to the city and checked through the
possessions taken from the prisoners at the time of their
arrest. One was a pawn ticket, dated the same day the
murder barrel had been found, but little attention had
been paid to it because the ticket showed the loan of one
dollar on a watch. It had been found in the pocket of
Petto the Ox, the man who had inspected the corpse with
so much interest.

The detective hurried to the pawnshop, where he re-
deemed the ticket. He was given an elaborately engraved
gold watch, worth many times more than the single dollar
for which it had been pawned. The answer was clear to
Petrosino. After the murder Petto had emptied the vic-
tim's pockets. Since the watch was a clue to identification,
he had taken it, but he did not want it and had dumped
it on a pawnbroker simply to get rid of it. Few pawn-
brokers at that time supplied police with descriptions of
the articles they accepted, and they could sell unredeemed
pledges after the short loan period. In that way the watch
would disappear.

Mrs. Madonia was brought down from Buffalo and
identified the body of her husband. She also recognized
the watch.

Petrosino felt that he had a strong case of circum-
stantial evidence. He brought all eleven prisoners to the
coroner's office, and I took his affidavit charging Petto

138 IT'S TIME To TELL

with the murder of Madonia. The other ten men were
charged with being accomplices.

Even with the formal arrest, the fear of the Mafia was
so strong that I had difficulty getting enough men to
serve on the coroner's jury. At the close of the inquest the
jury returned with a verdict against Petto. He was in-
dicted by the grand jury, and the other ten men were held
as material witnesses.

From various witnesses Petrosino had painstakingly
built up his case against Petto the Ox. He learned that
Madonia had been a distributor for Morello and had
come to New York seeking help to get DiPriema released
from Sing Sing. Morello had no interest in DiPriema and
had turned him down. Madonia refused to be rebuffed
and one night appeared unexpectedly at a secret hideout
of the gang. Alarmed at his knowledge and afraid that he
might turn them in for refusing to help his brother-in-
law, they decided that Madonia had to die. He was wined
and dined at LaDuca's cafe, taken elsewhere and killed.
Petrosino was certain that the Ox was the actual killer. It
was the custom for the killer to empty the pockets.

By the time the case came up for trial, the Mafia had
done its work. Key witnesses had disappeared, others now
told different stories, and so the indictment was dismissed
and all eleven men were released from the Tombs.

Petto the Ox dropped out of sight. Petrosino kept his
ears open and gradually picked up information that the
killer had settled in a small town in Pennsylvania, a safe
distance from New York and from anyone who might
want to avenge the death of Madonia. DiPriema was re-
leased from prison and also dropped out of sight.

Several uneventful years passed. Petto lived quietly in

Mafia Vendetta 139

the small town and behaved himself; he had no desire to
call any attention to his whereabouts. On the night of
October 25, 1905, neighbors saw him sitting outside his
home, smoking a pipe, the picture of a man at peace and
content with the world. They went to bed. Sometime
later Petto the Ox entered the house and prepared for
bed.

Neighbors heard a peculiar shrill whistle, noticed the
oil lamp blow out and heard his back door creak open. A
short time later five shots roared out. They found Petto
the Ox dead in front of his darkened home.

The murder of Petto showed clearly the accuracy of
Petrosino's solution of the Madonia killing. It was evident
that others besides the detective believed that the Ox was
the guilty man. And it is more than likely that this con-
clusion was reached on evidence more direct than that
which the detective had been able to obtain. If the guilty
one is not paid off in blood, the entire oath of vengeance
remains unsatisfied. Other members of the gang met
death in various ways, but no one else was unmistakably
a vendetta victim.

The Mulberry Bend section provided the coroner's
office with additional difficulties because where Little
Italy ended, Chinatown began. It was during this same
period that the so-called tong wars broke out; actually
these were fights between competing factions for control
of gambling rights. Although the warring groups liked to
use guns, they were notoriously poor shots and they were
busy' hitting innocent bystanders instead of each other.
Some of the arrests by police seemed to have been made
out of sheer desperation, with simply no idea of who did
the actual shooting. The inquests rarely added any en-

140 IT'S TIME To TELL

lightenment. There would be a parade of solemn-faced
Chinese to the stand, none of whom ever admitted being
able to speak or understand English, and each question
and reply had to be translated. The answers could have
been written down in advance without going through the
formality; no one saw anything, no one knew anything,
no one heard anything. When pressed about the sound
of gunfire, the answer invariably was that the witness
thought it was firecrackers being shot off to celebrate one
event or another. Coroner's juries, as confused as police,
simply thew up their hands and returned with meaning-
less open verdicts.

It was the murder of Elsie Sigel, granddaughter of Gen-
eral Franz Sigel, a Civil War hero, that brought about
closer co-operation between responsible Chinese mer-
chants and leaders of law enforcement agencies.

Miss Sigel and her mother, along with other socially
prominent women, had been active in mission work in
Chinatown, seeking to convert the Chinese to Christian-
ity. The young woman was sincerely interested in her
work, formed many friendships with her pupils and in-
vited some of them to visit her at her home.

She was last seen alive on the morning of June 9, 1909,
when she left her home planning to go to Chinatown. She
failed to return that night, but her worried family was
relieved the next day when a telegram, signed in her
name, arrived from Washington, D.C., stating that she
was all right and would be home the next day. Several
days passed with no further word from her, and a quiet
search was begun. No one had seen her in Washington,
and she had not appeared in Chinatown on the day she
had disappeared.

Mafia Vendetta 141

Nine days passed. On June 18, Sun Leung, owner of a
restaurant on the second floor at 782 Eighth Avenue, noti-
fied police that his cousin, Leon Ling, had been missing
for a week. Leon was a friend of the missing Miss SigeL
He lived in a room above the restaurant. Detectives
forced open his door, and there was a large trunk, tied
with cord, in the center of the room. The body of Miss
Sigel was in the trunk. She had been strangled with sash
cord. Bruises and scratches on her face and body showed
she had put up a vigorous fight for her life.

The murder of Miss Sigel shocked Chinatown and the
rest of the city. Dozens of letters she had written to Leon
Ling and to Chu Gain, owner of a restaurant in China-
town, were found in Leon's room. The letters indicated
that her friendship with these two men had passed beyond
any casual pupil-teacher relationship.

Chinatown was no longer uncommunicative. Police
were informed that Chong Sing, who occupied the room
adjacent to Leon Ling, also had disappeared. Leon was
traced from New York to Baltimore and then to Pitts-
burgh, where he dropped out of sight. He was well edu-
cated and preferred to wear American-style clothes, and
police believe that he disguised himself in Chinese dress
and fled the country.

Chong Sing was found in Amsterdam, New York, and
brought back directly to our office. The coroner asked me
to sit in on the questioning along with an assistant district
attorney. On the train ride back to New York City, Chong
had denied to detectives any knowledge of the murder,
but he dropped that pretense in our office and answered
questions directly in English.

He said that on June 9 he had been in his room when

142 IT'S TIME To TELL

he heard noises coming from Leon's room next door. "I
heard noises like maybe man and woman playing like
wrestling on the floor," was the way he described it. "I
look into room when I hear noise. Through keyhole I
see Leon and girl make like fight or play fight. Leon, he
hold her down on bed. Me see blood, me look again in
Leon's room. Me see girl lying back in bed with clothes
on, then me see Leon begin to pull off girl's clothes and
plenty of blood on her face and coming out of her mouth
and nose. Me open door and go in room, see the girl lying
in bed all covered up. See feet sticking out and hands.
Leon go in closet and bring out trunk in middle of floor,
open trunk and take everything out and make trunk
empty. Leon go in closet and get rope and drop rope on
floor. Me go away quick, go downstairs. Afraid of
trouble."

He said that Leon later called him back. There was
much blood on the floor, and Leon, unaware of what
Chong had seen through the keyhole, told him the girl
had bitten her lip. She no longer was in sight, and the
trunk was closed. He admitted after further questioning
that Leon told him the girl was dead and that he had to
get rid of her. He told Chong that he was going to ship the
trunk to Europe.

Chong said that the night before the murder he and
Leon had been guests at a party Miss Sigel had given at
her home. Leon drank too much and became boisterous.
He believed that the ypung woman had come to see Leon
about his behavior the previous night and to tell him he
could not come to her home again. Leon, who had stolen
the letters she had written to Chu Gain, and evidently was
jealous, thought he was being banished for another reason

Mafia Vendetta 143

and strangled her. I have no doubt that Chong told us the
truth that day. All efforts to trace Leon in China failed,
and he never was brought to trial for the murder.

As a result of this tragedy, the well-meaning women
who had been doing missionary work in Chinatown hur-
riedly dropped their efforts. It was some years later when
Chinatown Gertie got religion and joined Tom Noonan,
'The Bishop of Chinatown/' at the Doyers Street Mis-
sion. Gertie had been an alcoholic pickpocket who preyed
on tourists visiting Chinatown when she suddenly re-
formed, stopped drinking, and became an active mission
worker. She had little success among the Chinese but was
revered by the Bowery derelicts. Today, there are many
active mission churches in Chinatown.

CHAPTER NINE

Coroners for Sale

I SAW MANY CORONERS

come and go. Some of them were intelligent and dedi-
cated men who worked hard to make the coroner's court
a place where facts and justice were of primary im-
portance. When they presided, inquests were truly a
^poor man's court/' No lawyer was needed, the atmos-
phere was friendly and informal, witnesses were not
frightened or confused by rigid legal procedures, and the
truth would emerge. These men were proud of their
office, they recognized its importance and they protected
its integrity.

A few of the coroners, and let me emphasize that it
was only a few, were outrageous crooks who dispensed
"justice" for cash. Their only interest in each new case
was to discover how they could extort money, and they
used the power of their office for blackmail purposes.

The great majority of the coroners I served under were

144

Coroners for Sale 145

political party workers who were finally receiving a
reward for their faithful services to a political machine
or a party boss. Most of these men were personally honest,
but while some were adequate in their work, others were
ineffectual. Too often their only qualification for the
important post was party regularity, and we even had a
few men serving as coroner who could just about read
and write. Some of these hacks were more concerned
with remaining on the public payroll than with working
for the public, and they took orders from politicians.

They either were indifferent or looked the other way
when juries were packed, and sometimes they allowed
their decisions to be dictated to them from behind the
scenes. The coroner's office was an important one for a
political machine to control. It was a place where a case
could be fixed and disposed of early, before public outcry
could build up to a point where no politician would dare
to interfere.

It can be safely assumed that some of the politicians
demanded or accepted bribes for such influence over a
coroner, but there were other and more important ad-
vantages to control of the coroner's office by a political
machine. The court was a place where favors could be
done in return for a generous political contribution,
where strong-arm thugs, who performed valuable services
on Election Day, could be kept free for future duty. More
than one killer walked out of the coroner's court because
a packed jury solemnly voted that the thug had acted in
"self-defense" when he shot or bludgeoned to death an in-
offensive and innocent victim.

An alert or vigorous prosecutor could still have pre-
sented the same information to a grand jury and obtained

146 IT'S TIME To TELL

an indictment, but quite often the district attorney had
been elected on the same political ticket as the coroner,
he was subject to the same pressure, and the verdict of
the coroner's jury gave him a graceful out in not pressing
the case and saved him from sullying his own record.
Even where a prosecutor went ahead and obtained an
indictment, a skillful defense lawyer could make good
use of the coroner's verdict in raising a question of reason-
able doubt in the minds of a trial jury.

Although I am discussing a situation that existed in
New York City until 1918, when the coroner's office was
abolished, the situation still has its application today.
The coroner's office still exists in many cities, and the
public, particularly at municipal levels, receives the kind
of government it deserves. If people abdicate their rights
and accept without protest unqualified candidates for
office, they should not be surprised if these men are de-
voted to a political machine rather than to public service.

It is easy enough to say, 'Tut in reform candidates,"
but the worst grafter in all the years I was with the cor-
oner's office was Dr. Moses Jackson, who had been elected
coroner on a reform ticket. Because a man shouts "crook"
at a man in office, it does not necessarily mean that he
will be more honest; he may have even bigger and better
plans for thieving when he enters office.

Dr. Jackson, who was a physician, also had been active
in politics. We didn't have to wait long for him to exhibit
his greed and his belief that his election, even though on
a reform ticket, had been a mandate to him to graft, not
only spelled out in capital letters but in golden letters as
well. His greed and stupidity were truly amazing.

He had little idea of the legal powers of his office or

Coroners for Sale 147

the scope of a coroner's authority, and he made no at-
tempt to find out. He did know that a coroner had the
power to make an arrest, and to him anybody with this
power was in a position to demand money.

One of his very first cases involved the death of a work-
man killed by a falling elevator in the B. T. Babbitt Soap
Company plant on Washington Street. A cable had
snapped and it obviously was an accidental death. That
made no difference to Coroner Jackson.

It was the custom then for detectives to telephone a
coroner after he had made his investigation and ask him
whether he wanted an arrest made. When such a call was
made to Dr. Jackson, he told the detective to arrest B.
T. Babbitt.

"Mr. Babbitt has been dead for years," the detective
told him.

"Well/* Jackson directed him, "go out and arrest
somebody who owns the building."

Since the building was owned by a corporation, the
puzzled detective finally returned with the building
superintendent. Dr. Jackson was satisfied. He didn't care
who was brought in, he wanted to use the arrest as a lever.
He promptly held the man in five thousand dollars' bail
pending the inquest. The bail, for an accident case, was
unusually high, but Dr. Jackson had his reason. He be-
lieved that the high figure would convince soap company
officials that he viewed the case seriously. He happily
expected them to bribe him.

He had selected the wrong business firm. The company
made no such move despite broad hints by Dr. Jackson.
He even postponed the inquest several times in order to
give them ample opportunity. He finally had to hold the

148 IT'S TIME To TELL

inquest but was determined to get his revenge and obtain
a verdict placing the blame on the company for the
death of the workman. In his charge to the coroner's jury
he said:

"Gentlemen, this elevator was not fit for cattle. This
rich company let this poor man ride on it when they
knew it was not safe, and you should hold the B. T.
Babbit Company responsible for this man's death."

While the jury was out he walked into an office of an
associate, where I was seated, and boasted of what he
had done. He was certain that the coroner's jury would
recommend to the grand jury that criminal charges be
filed against the company, and this would serve in the
future as an example of his pay-or-else policy. Just then
a clerk hurried in to report that the jury had reached a
verdict. Jackson eagerly asked what it was, and the clerk
replied the jurors had found that the death had been an
accident.

Jackson loudly berated the clerk in our presence and
shouted, "You son of a gun, you sold me out,"

He was convinced that the clerk had accepted a bribe
and had fixed the jury. Not only was the clerk an honest
and conscientous person, but it was absurd to think any-
body would want to fix a jury in a case where the facts
pointed so conclusively to an accident. And the soap
company was one that had never tried to fix a case.

Dr. Jackson refused to change his viewpoint that every
arrest meant graft for someone and if he didn't receive
payment, then somebody had cut in on his prerogative.
After the Babbitt case he decided he would always deal
directly with the principals.

It was this policy and his own greed that led to his

Coroners for Sale 149

downfall. A woman dying in Jersey City told police there
that she had had an abortion performed in New York
by a doctor in his office on West Twenty-third Street.
The information was passed along to New York City
police, who came to our office for information about the
medical aspects of the case before arresting the physician.

Jackson was present and when he heard it was an
abortion case, he told the officers to make an immediate
arrest and bring the doctor before him for arraignment.
The detectives pointed out that while it was a police
matter, the case was not within the jurisdiction of the
coroner's office because the woman had died in another
state. Even so, the coroner bulldozed the officers into a
hurried arrest and he sat as a committing magistrate. The
accused doctor asked that his lawyer be notified.

It was this information that Jackson had been seeking.
He went to the lawyer's office and told him that for a
thousand dollars he would discharge the doctor when
the hearing was held. William Travers Jerome, an honest
and fearless man, was district attorney at that time. The
lawyer knew that if his client was freed at the inquest,
Jerome would have him rearrested. The lawyer pointed
out to Jackson that it would be useless to pay the bribe
without the guaranteed co-operation of the district at-
torney's office.

It was no secret that Jerome suspected Jackson of
demanding and accepting bribes. Rumors of his activities
had spread rapidly. The two men had clashed several
times when Jerome had questioned some of Jackson's
actions. In fact, Jerome was so suspicious of some of the
coroners that he had organized his own homicide bureau,
made his own investigations into suspicious deaths and

150 IT'S TIME To TELL

largely ignored the coroners. He once told a reporter that
the office should be abolished. The newspaperman, look-
ing for an even better story, repeated Jerome's remarks
to Jackson, who retorted:

"That man is a paranoia [sic]. I'm a member of the
lunacy commission. He can get my opinion if he comes
to me. He's crazy! He has his smart young fellows up
there and thinks he can do everything. He wants to
abolish everything except his own office and be the whole
thing himself."

Jackson's reference to the ' 'smart young fellows" was
an unwitting tribute to Jerome's staff. The district at-
torney had surrounded himself with bright young
lawyers, many of them independently wealthy, who were
fired with the same zeal for good government as was
Jerome.

Under the circumstances, one would think that even
Jackson would have thought twice about going to any
member of Jerome's staff and offering to cut him in on
his bribe. But since he believed that every man was like
himself and for sale, Dr. Jackson telephoned Assistant
District Attorney Charles Chadwick, who had been as-
signed to the abortion case, and suggested they lunch
together. Chadwick was one of New York's blue bloods, a
member of a wealthy and distinguished family. He had
been an All-American halfback at Yale, and is one of the
school's football greats.

Dr. Jackson, who came from the tenement district of
the East Side, suggested to Chadwick during the lunch
that he could throw a lot of business his way if he went
into private practice. Then, almost as an afterthought,
and with the finesse of an elephant, he mentioned the
physician who was under arrest.

Coroners for Sale 151

"I want to discharge the doctor tomorrow when he
comes up at the hearing, and his lawyer will give me one
thousand dollars," he told his startled luncheon com-
panion. "If you approve it I'll give you two hundred and
fifty dollars."

Chadwick said later he almost fell off his chair at the
bald and brazen bribery attempt. His office had been
seeking to get evidence against Jackson, and here the
coroner was offering him such evidence along with the
dessert. Chadwick pumped Jackson, got the details of
his visit to the lawyer and his demand for money, and
then pretended that he would have to think it over. He
did not want to alarm Jackson, who might frighten the
lawyer for the abortionist into silence.

Chadwick hurried back to his office and told Jerome
of the incident. The prosecutor wondered if Jackson was
trying to pull his leg and fool him into making a false
arrest. He sent for the lawyer named by Jackson, who
confirmed that the coroner had demanded a bribe and
promised to fix the case. Both the lawyer and Chadwick
signed sworn affidavits, and several hours later Jackson
was arrested while at his desk in the coroner's office.

When he was brought before Jerome, who accused him
of being a grafter, Jackson retorted, "I'm not such a
grafter as you." He still clung to his belief that every
person sought bribes. He was convicted, sent to prison,
and, of course, ousted from the coroner's office.

Oddly, it was another physician who almost equaled
Jackson's record for corruption. Both men served on the
same board of coroners, which explains Jerome's sus-
picions of the office. The staff, aware of his search for
bribes, gave him the ironic nickname of "Goldy."

Several persons were killed in a dynamite explosion

i5$> IT'S TIME To TELL

while the East Side subway was being built. Goldy hur-
ried to the scene with visions of dollar signs dancing
inside his head. But when he got to Park Avenue and
Forty-first Street, the scene of the blast, he found District
Attorney Jerome already there. He promptly dashed
around notifying every police officer he could find that
he was in charge of the case. His great worry was that
Jerome would act first, make an arrest and present the
case directly to a grand jury, so that he would not be able
to hold an inquest. Without bothering to gather any
details he looked around the streets, saw a laborer stand-
ing on the corner holding a red warning flag in his hand,
and told police to arrest him and bring him to the cor-
oner's office.

The bewildered flag-holder, who had nothing whatever
to do with the explosion and certainly was in no way
responsible for it, was hustled downtown, and Goldy
began his immediate arraignment. As the proceedings
were under way, District Attorney Jerome, who had
learned of the arrest, hurried into the coroner's court
and objected to any action being taken against the inno-
cent man. The prosecutor got into a heated argument
with the coroner, and one of the latter *s clerks struck at
Jerome. The district attorney countered with a left hook
that almost lifted the clerk off his feet. Taking advantage
of the diversion, Goldy held the workman without bail
and committed him to the Tombs, almost all in one
breath. He then banged his gavel, shouted that court was
adjourned and ran out of the room.

A lawyer for the subway contractor promptly went
before a supreme court justice and obtained the release
of the laborer on a writ of habeas corpus, Goldy had

Coroners for Sale 153

ducked away so rapidly that he did not learn of this de-
velopment. The next morning he opened the inquest and
sent to the Tombs for his prisoner. An officer told him
the man wasn't there, that he had been released on the
habeas corpus writ.

"What's that?" he asked.

He was convinced that nobody had the right to take his
prisoner away and he wanted to issue warrants of arrest
for everybody involved, until the city corporation counsel
explained to him that a supreme court writ was more
potent than an arrest made by a coroner.

I was pleased by the sequel to this incident. Assisted
by Jerome, the laborer sued for false arrest. The coroner,
who loved money like life itself, had many anguished
conferences with his lawyer and finally settled out of
court by paying five hundred dollars in cash. The work-
man was well compensated for being victimized by a rash
official.

Later I learned how Goldy had manipulated a case
in which a boy had been shot and killed by an off-duty
policeman, who was drunk at the time.

At the inquest the jury exonerated the policeman. The
coroner had shunted to a side office the key witnesses
against the officer and did not call them to the stand. He
received one thousand dollars from the patrolman in-
volved. The boy's mother refused to accept the verdict
and went to District Attorney Jerome. She supplied the
prosecutor with the names of witnesses who saw the officer
shoot her son. She did not know of the bribe Goldy had
accepted.

Jerome investigated the shooting, and the officer was in-
dicted for manslaughter. While the patrolman was being

154 IT'S TIME To TELL

held in the Tombs, Goldy sent his clerk to see him, told
him to keep quiet and he would get his money back. The
officer, probably afraid that Jerome also would indict him
for bribery, said nothing and the money was returned to
him. This was one time Goldy was glad to give up money,
since it saved him from going to jail.

I was fortunate that the two men I served as secretary
to the coroner, Antonio Zucca and Dr. Gustave Scholer,
were wealthy and honest men who could not be bribed.
After that I was placed on civil service, and since the
crooked coroners could not control me, they never tried
to involve me in any of their schemes.

Our greatest difficulty was not with crooked coroners
but with a special breed of predatory small-fry lawyers who
infested the old Criminal Courts Building where our office
was located for many years. These lawyers were always
underfoot and many of them literally seemed to have
their offices in their hats. They would borrow pens and
paper and they carried the necessary legal forms in their
pockets. We always kept the stamp drawer securely
locked. If the building's facilities had been kept open all
night, I believe some of them would have made it their
permanent home.

These lawyers preyed upon the foreign-born who had
difficulty understanding the language and were terrified
at being involved with police or courts, a holdover from
experiences in their native lands. Often they were in-
volved in simple accident cases and would have been re-
leased after the inquest. The lawyers would solicit them
as they were being brought in as prisoners, extort as much
money as they could for fees and then tell them they
needed additional money "to take care of the coroner,"

Coroners for Sale 155

assuring them this would win their freedom. This money
also would be pocketed by the lawyers- Occasionally one
of these prisoners would be held for further action and he
then would start shouting that he had paid money to the
coroner. In some instances we forced lawyers to return the
"bribe" money to the clients. Others would deny they
had told the prisoners they had to give the coroner any-
thing, and all we could do was to tell the prisoners to re-
port it to the district attorney's office.

The antics of these lawyers helped destroy the reputa-
tion of the coroner's court and it was unfair to the great
majority of coroners, who were honest men.

Ambulance-chasing by lawyers was not against the
legal code of ethics at that time, and a surprisingly large
number of lawyers, who later became well known in the
profession and even rose to hold important judicial posts,
were active in this practice. All the newspapers main-
tained reporters in the building and they covered our
court and activities as part of their duties. To assist them
in their work, we would hang a slip of paper on a hook
whenever a coroner went out on a call. This proved to
be a valuable tip service for the ambulance-chasers as
well. Whenever a disaster occurred, they were at the
scene almost as quickly as we were. They would solicit
cases while we still were questioning the injured trying
to obtain information as to how the accident had oc-
curred.

There was a collision on the Sea Beach railroad re-
turning from the race track at Brighton Beach, and no
sooner had the injured arrived at the hospital than a
small army of runners tried to crash in. When they were
refused admittance into the wards, they wrote letters

156 IT'S TIME To TELL

offering their services to obtain damages from the rail-
road company. Newspapers later published some of these
letters.

They interfered with our work so much at Bellevue
that we managed to get hospital officials to issue an order
that only relatives could appear at bedsides. One day
after this order was issued, we went to the hospital to
interview the survivors of a multiple accident. A priest
was moving about talking to the patients, and we assumed
that he was comforting them. He kept his back to us.
I noticed that one of the victims signed a paper given
to him by the visitor, and I walked over. The "priest" was
a solicitor for a well-known lawyer specializing in neg-
ligence cases. He had rented his clothes from a costume
company to pose as a man of the cloth and had succeeded
in signing up several of the injured before we discovered
his identity and had him thrown out.

One of the active negligence-case lawyers was Martin
T. Manton, who had a large staff of solicitors including
the walking delegate of the Iron Workers Union. This
was before the Workmen's Compensation Law was en-
acted, and whenever an iron worker was injured or
killed in an accident on the job, the delegate would bring
the case to Manton. The lawyer became wealthy in his
practice, later became a federal court judge, was con-
victed for accepting bribes and was sent to prison.

The New York Bar Association finally called for the
outlawing of ambulance-chasing, and a law was passed
making it a misdemeanor for anyone to solicit an acci-
dent case. Lawyers now can be suspended or disbarred for
such practices.

For years I heard rumors that Abe Hummel had in-

Coroners for Sale 157

fluence with our office and I was puzzled by the reports.
Hummel and his partner, Howe, were a law team who won
many acquittals in notorious murders. Howe was portly
and dapper. Hummel was a short, almost deformed man,
who operated in the background. It was largely his behind-
the-scenes maneuvering, rather than Howe's eloquence,
that won so many of their cases. The firm bribed trial
jurors, had a staff of professional witnesses who were
prepared to offer alibis at a moment's notice, and if
clients were wealthy enough, bought off damaging wit-
nesses, sending them out of the state and even out of the
country. Hummel took care of such inside matters as de-
veloping breach-of-promise suits into a fine blackmail
art. Millionaires who liked to play around with chorus
girls were encouraged to write letters to these girls, who
promptly turned them over to Hummel. He would then
inform these men that he was filing suit unless they
wished to settle for damages for breaking a poor girl's
heart. Since these men could not risk exposure, they paid.
Hummel did have a strange code of ethics. He always
turned over to these men all their letters and had a small
stove in his office where they could watch them go up
in flames. He never tried to collect more than once on a
case but he sometimes hooked the same millionaire sev-
eral times with different girls. It was largely as a result
of his activities that breach-of-promise suits finally were
outlawed in New York*

The firm seldom had matters within our jurisdiction,
and I was mystified by the rumors that Hummel fixed
cases in our court until one day when I learned how he
had collected three thousand dollars by pretending to a
client that he had to pay a bribe.

158 IT'S TIME To TELL

We always made a careful investigation of death by
suicide to prevent any cover-up of murder, but after we
were satisfied that there was nothing suspicious, we sel-
dom held a public inquest. We usually closed out the
case by calling in a relative for a statement.

In this instance a twenty-two-year-old stenographer had
poisoned herself. Her mother came to the office and told
me that her daughter had killed herself after being
seduced by her boss. He had pursued her for some time,
taking her out to dinner and the theater, but after she
submitted to him, he had dropped her. The disappointed
girl, who probably had hoped for marriage, finally told
her mother, stayed home from work the next day and
drank poison. That ended the case as far as our office was
concerned and it was marked closed on our records.

Her employer, who did not know of our custom, was
afraid that his involvement with the girl would come out
at an inquest and went to Hummel for advice. The
lawyer knew how we handled ordinary suicides and sent
a clerk to inspect the list of closed cases, a public record
open to anybody. The clerk verified that the case was
closed. Hummel did not inform the worried businessman
of this but told him instead that there was an inquest
scheduled but that he could fix it up with the coroner so
he would not be called. He said he would have to pay
a twenty-five-hundred-dollar bribe to the coroner and
had the gall to ask for an additional modest five-hundred-
dollar fee for his services. The man paid the three-
thousand dollars and left, convinced that he had saved
himself from a public scandal. There was no inquest
scheduled or planned, the case was completely over as
far as our office was concerned, so Hummel simply

Coroners for Sale 159

pocketed all the money he had tricked the man into
paying. Later the businessman boasted how he had
fixed a case in the coroner's court. One of his listeners
told me the story, and I showed my informant the actual
records of the case, documenting that it had been closed
without an inquest before the businessman ever went to
Hummel. In a way, Hummel's gouging of this man was
a touch of poetic justice, and I would have liked to see
the businessman's face when he learned the actual facts.
The law later caught up with Hummel and he went to
prison.

But it was such false boasts and misrepresentations that
may have led an anonymous letter writer to question
the death of Gustave Bauman, the owner of the Biltmore
Hotel. I had been a personal friend of Bauman's for
some years. He formerly had owned the Holland House
at Fifth Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street, and the hotel
was a favorite with the carriage trade. Swiss-born, he had
been raised in the tradition of innkeeping, and deft ser-
vice was his hallmark. When Antonio Zucca, who had
first appointed me secretary to the coroner, lost his bid
for re-election and I thought I would be out of office,
Bauman offered me a post as his assistant. I declined
when Zucca's successor, Dr. Scholer, asked me to stay
on.

Bauman finally realized his dream when he built the
Biltmore, still one of New York City's fine hotels. On
October 14, 1914, about six months after the hotel had
opened, I received an urgent telephone call to come
immediately to the Biltmore. I found Bauman dead; he
had fallen from the twenty-second floor of the hotel
to the Italian Gardens, located on a second-story setback.

i6o IT'S TIME To TELL

I notified Coroner Feinberg, who was a doctor, and we
conducted an investigation.

A hotel carpenter, whose shop was on the extension of
the twenty-second floor, said Mr. Bauman had visited the
shop to discuss alterations he wanted made on the floor
below. After Bauman left, the workman saw him leaning
over the coping of the roof, looking down into the Italian
Gardens. It was then 11:00 A.M. and every morning at
that hour the hotel waiters drilled in the gardens to
maintain the precision service Bauman demanded of his
help. There were no signs of any struggle on the roof,
and the other carpenters in the shop had heard no dis-
turbance. Bauman was a stout man and in leaning over
the low parapet may have become dizzy and fallen to
his death. Coroner Feinberg was satisfied that it was an
accident. Before the inquest, rumors spread that Bauman
had committed suicide because of a lack of business, but
the financial records of the hotel showed that it already
was operating in the black. He was a devoted family man.
I had seen him just one week before he died, and he had
been happy at the success of his new venture. His death
was officially ruled an accident.

A short time later the New York Sun received an
anonymous letter in which the writer claimed that Bau-
man had been murdered. The writer mentioned no
names, although he hinted Bauman had been having
marital difficulties. The editor, knowing of my friend-
ship with Bauman, had the letter brought to me. I took
reporters to the hotel, where they were able to conduct
their own investigation which satisfied them that the
death had been accidental. They also established that the
report of marital difficulties was without foundation.

Coroners for Sale 161

That still didn't end the case. As a successful business-
man, Bauman had carried a large amount of life insur-
ance. The company, using the suicide rumors as a de-
fense, refused to make payment. The entire matter was
thrashed out again, this time before a trial jury. The
verdict was that Bauman's death had been an accident
and the policy was paid. The letter writer never came
forward nor offered any information to back up his claim
of murder.

Some years later, on the occasion of my twenty-fifth
anniversary with the office, my colleagues gave me a
testimonial dinner, and I was pleased when they selected
the Biltmore Hotel.

Graft and corruption can be halted easily in any cor-
oner's office. I recommend that candidates for office
should be lawyers who can conduct intelligent inquiries.
The doctors on the staff should be skilled pathologists
who have passed special examinations and they should
have tenure placing them beyond any political control.
The investigators and other key personnel also should
be on civil service. A coroner tempted to take a bribe
or fix a case for a political boss would think twice about
placing himself in a vulnerable position where there are
witnesses able to testify against him.

CHAPTER TEN

The Untold Story

ON THE MORNING OF

July gi, 1915, a grafting New York City police lieutenant
was electrocuted at Sing Sing Prison. He was not con-
victed for taking bribes but as the man who had ordered
one of the city's most sensational murders. Since then
I have received information in confidence that has made
me wonder whether the man died in the electric chair
for murder, or simply because he was a grafter. It is en-
tirely possible that an innocent man was legally exe-
cuted. If so, at best it was done because of blind prejudice.
At worst, it may have been done to satisfy a consuming
political ambition. ^

Many readers will have guessed that the police lieu-
tenant was Charles Becker, who died for the murder
of gambler Herman Rosehthal.

All the principals now are dead and I do not think
I am bound any longer by the terms of the confidence*

162

The Untold Story 163

I feel that honesty and justice require that the full facts
should be made known, and I will reveal them here
for the first time. I will name my source, and you will
be able to judge for yourself the integrity and the
knowledge of that person.

During the early morning hours of July 16, 1912,
Rosenthal, a well-known gambler, was seated at a table
in the dining room of the Hotel Metropole on Forty-
third Street, just around the corner from Broadway.
He was reading the first editions of the morning news-
papers, in which his name was prominently featured.
Just two days earlier the New York World had published
an affidavit by him saying that his silent partner in a
gambling house he had operated in an apartment at 104
West Forty-fifth Street had been Lieutenant Becker, the
head of special police squad number one, popularly
known as the "Strong Arm Squad," which was specifi-
cally detailed to suppress gambling. The next day he told
the same story to District Attorney Charles S. Whitman,
made an appearance before the grand jury, and was due
for another.

Rosenthal was bitter because Becker had raided his
place in April. The gambler claimed it was supposed to
have been a courtesy raid, made during off hours when
no gambling was going on. He was out at the time, but
his young nephew and an employee were arrested, and a
patrolman was stationed in front of the door thereafter
to prevent him from reopening for business.

The Metropole was a favorite meeting place for gam-
blers and the sporting crowd. From time to time, as he
read the papers, Rosenthal read aloud to others items
from the news stories to justify his actions to them, since

164 IT'S TIME To TELL

gamblers, traditionally, never talk about their connec-
tions with police.

About two o'clock that morning Louis "Bridgie"
Webber, another gambler, entered the room, circulated
around the tables, paused to speak briefly with Rosenthal,
and then left. A short time later Rosenthal tossed a dollar
bill on the table to pay for an eighty-cent check and
walked out. As he came through the Forty-third Street
door, a witness saw a man signal, several other men went
up to Rosenthal, and four shots were fired. One tore away
part of his skull. Rosenthal fell to the sidewalk and died
almost instantly. A prediction he had made only some
thirty-six hours earlier, when he had signed the affidavit,
had come true. He had said at that time, "I am signing
my death warrant."

After the shooting the gunmen ran to a gray Packard
parked about one hundred feet up the street, and the car
roared east and turned on Sixth Avenue. An actor,
Charles Gallagher, made a note of the license plate num-
ber of the fleeing car and gave it to police. Other wit-
nesses supplied other numbers, but the actor had been
correct. The plate number had been issued to Louis
Libby, who operated a limousine service. He said his
partner, William Shapiro, had the car out that night.
The car was found later in a Washington Square garage
where the owner said Shapiro had brought it in after
2:00 A.M. but had requested him to say he had parked
it at midnight.

District Attorney Whitman was notified of the murder
and went immediately to the West Forty-seventh Street
stationhouse where the body had been taken.

Let's pause for a moment to examine a few facts.

The Untold Story 165

Rosenthal's affidavit against Becker already had been
published in the newspapers and was in the possession
of the district attorney. Whitman had said publicly that
he needed more than Rosenthal's unsupported word to
act against the police lieutenant. If anything happened
to Rosenthal, Becker would be the first suspect; even a
dolt could understand that, and Becker had had suffi-
cient intelligence to pass two civil service examinations
for promotion. He knew Rosenthal already had done
everything against him that he could, and as a police
officer he was well aware that legally proving graft is a
difficult matter. And Becker most certainly knew that if
anything happened to Rosenthal he would be in a much
more difficult situation.

When Whitman met reporters shortly after the mur-
der, he indicated clearly that without any information
at all as yet, he already had prejudged the case and made
up his mind. He told them: "The big thing in this
case is not the death of Rosenthal, but the death of public
confidence in our system of justice that the murder has
gone a long way toward causing. Now the big thing is to
take those steps necessary to restore this confidence and
to prove that Russian methods of disposing of those who
cross the path of the police system can only be employed
at dangerous cost/' The latter part of his statement was
an obvious reference to Becker and it was treated so by
the press.

Whitman was an ambitious man. He had sought the
nomination for district attorney as part of a long-range
plan. With the publicity available to a crusading prose-
cutor he hoped to win a reputation that would put him
in the governor's chair and eventually lead him to the

i66 IT'S TIME To TELL

Presidency of the United States; he was no shrinking
violet in keeping quiet about his ambitions.

I applaud any ambitious man, and the nation has
gained considerably from such men. Thomas E. Dewey
followed the identical route and was twice the candidate
of his party for the Presidency. Earl Warren rose from
prosecutor in California to governor of his state and
finally became chief justice of the United States Supreme
Court. But ambition must never interfere with the
proper course of justice.

Shapiro was found quickly and he was able to supply
officials with four names. He said the car had been hired
from him for the night by Baldy Jack Rose, who despite
his sweet-smelling name was an unsavory character well
known to police. He was a one-time white slaver, a pro-
fessional gambler, a stool pigeon, and as he testified later,
he was bag man or collector for Becker. Because of some
early illness, Rose was completely hairless and his skull
resembled a billiard balL His correct name was Jacob
Rosenzweig. Shapiro said he drove Rose and Harry Val-
lon and Sam Schepps, two small-time gamblers, from
Tom Sharkey's saloon on East Fourteenth Street far
uptown and then to Bridgie Webber's gambling place at
Forty-second Street and Sixth Avenue. Later he had
driven some of these men to the vicinity of the Metropole.
After the shooting the four actual gunmen had jumped
into his car and ordered him to drive under the threat
of death. He had dropped them off near Bridgie Webber's
place. He did not know the identity of the four gunmen
but said one of them was the man Rose had picked up
uptown.

Police were unable to find Rose, but Webber was ar-

The Untold Story 167

rested. He denied Shapiro's story. He also was an un-
savory person whose activities had included running an
opium den in Chinatown and conducting stuss games,
poker games and gambling houses. He was a business
rival of Rosenthal's, and the two men were known to be
enemies. Sometime before the murder Webber had been
waylaid by several gangsters and given a severe beating.
Webber at the time had stated openly that Rosenthal was
responsible for the attack on him.

Two days after the murder Rose walked into police
headquarters and surrendered, remarking that he heard
the authorities were looking for him. His first story gave
officials little more than they already had. Two other
men who had been seen at Bridgie Webber's place the
night of the murder were also arrested. They were Sam
Paul, who had made threats against Rosenthal, and Jack
Sullivan, "King of the newsboys."

On July 23, one week after the murder, Vallon sur-
rendered. Sam Schepps still was missing. Whitman now
had six men under arrest for complicity, one being
sought, and none of them apparently the actual gunmen.
The known facts indicated that Rose had hired the car,
had assembled the gunmen and had conferred all along
the way with Bridgie Webber. Taking part in some of
their activities were their two henchmen, Vallon and
Schepps. Webber was a known enemy of Rosenthal, a
man with a motive for the murder, and the fact that
he had spoken to Rosenthal at the Metropole and the
gambler had then left the hotel and walked into the
ambush indicated that Webber had lured him to his
death. Despite Whitman's prediction on the night of the
murder, he had found nothing to associate Becker with

i68 IT'S TIME To TELL

the murder, although there were ample indications that
the police lieutenant was taking graft. He lived in a
luxurious home, far beyond the income of his school-
teacher wife and himself, and he had a large amount of
money deposited in banks. A fall-out among gamblers
is not of much interest to the public; it is not the stuff
that makes headlines or a hero, as would the prosecution
of a renegade police official.

A brief inquest hearing was held on July 24 by our
office. Whitman did not want any of the men in custody
questioned, and Becker was not summoned. Of the few
witnesses called, a barber and a waiter made the case even
bleaker against Rose, Webber, Vallon and the missing
Schepps when they testified that they saw Webber running
away from the Metropole immediately after the shooting
of Rosenthal. The waiter said Webber had given the
signal to the gunmen.

Shortly after the inquest District Attorney Whitman
announced that he had obtained confessions from Rose,
Webber and Vallon. The three men had placed the
blame on Becker. Rose said that Becker had ordered him
to hire the gunmen and kill Rosenthal because he was
talking. The bald prisoner said he had kept delaying,
but Becker had issued an ultimatum on the same day
that Rosenthal saw Whitman and demanded that it be
done that night. He said Becker threatened to frame them
unless they carried out the execution. Rose's story was
confirmed by Webber and Vallon.

Rose also furnished the names of the four gunmen.
They were members of "Big Jack" Zelig's mob on the
lower East Side. Their aliases have enriched criminal
history. They were Frank Muller, alias "Whitey Lewis";

The Untold Story 169

Louis Rosenberg, alias "Lefty Louie"; Harry Horowitz,
alias "Gyp the Blood"; and Frank Ciroficci, alias "Dago
Frank/' Their names were withheld temporarily while
police could round them up.

Whitman called a night meeting of a grand jury, and
Becker was promptly indicted for first-degree murder.
The prosecutor also revealed that in return for the con-
fessions he had given a written guarantee of immunity
from prosecution for murder to Rose, Webber and Val-
lon, provided that none of them had fired any of the
actual shots which killed Rosenthal. In other words, in
return for their testimony that they had arranged the
murder on the orders of Becker, they would go com-
pletely free despite their complicity in the crime.

When Becker was arrested he denied all knowledge of
the murder. He claimed that Rose had acted for him
as a stool pigeon in obtaining information about gam-
bling places. He also denied taking graft which, of course,
greatly weakened his denial of the murder. Becker said
that on the night Rosenthal was shot he had gone to a
newspaper office to return some clippings he had bor-
rowed from a reporter, then had attended the prize
fights at Madison Square Garden and had gone home.
His first knowledge of the murder, he said, came from
Frederick Harley, a reporter, who had telephoned him
after the shooting. Rose, in his confession, said he had
notified Becker after the shooting and said the lieutenant
told him he had heard about it and congratulated him.

There still was a vital flaw in Whitman's case against
Becker. The common law under which we operate is the
result of many hundreds of years of experience. And from
this experience has come the rule that a prisoner cannot

170 IT'S TIME To TELL

be convicted solely upon the testimony of an accomplice,
that independent corroboration is needed. It is fairly
obvious that a man trying to save his own neck will
readily try to shunt the blame upon somebody else,
whether that somebody else is guilty or not. And the
story told by Rose, Webber and Vallon made them ac-
complices. Independent corroboration was needed.

Whitman did not have to search for such corrobor-
ation. His three prisoners, who had lengthy conferences
with their attorneys before they confessed, were able to
supply it. It was none other than the missing Sam
Schepps. All four of them had gone to a conference with
Becker in Harlem, where he was planning to raid a gam-
bling house. They had met in a vacant lot, and Becker
had told them that Rosenthal had to be killed. Schepps,
however, had not taken part in the conference. He had
remained at the curb talking to the chauffeur who had
driven the car, so he was not in on the conspiracy and
therefore was not an accomplice, but yet could testify
to the conference taking place and so corroborate the
story. The date of the conference was indefinite.

Further, Schepps was not really missing. Rose and his
attorney knew where he was all the time, in Hot Springs,
Arkansas, Now Schepps hurried back to New York and
supplied the vital missing link.

The case was complete against Becker and he could
be placed on trial. Defense attorneys objected to Schepp's
testimony, claiming that he was as much an accomplice
as the other three men. Justice John GoflE overruled the
objections. Rose supplied much of the colorful testimony
of the trial. He said he had not gone to the vicinity of

The Untold Story 171

the Hotel Metropole at the time of the shooting but had
remained behind at Bridgie Webber's place.

"I was still at Webber's," he testified, "when word
came in that Rosenthal had been shot. It made me feel
sick. I laid down on the couch for a few minutes, and
then Webber suggested that I had better telephone
Becker. I asked him where we could get a booth and he
said at the Times Building. I went over there and called
him up. I said, 'Hello, there. Did you hear the news?*
'Yes/ he replied, 1 congratulate you/ 'How did you get
it so soon?' I asked. 'I got it from a newspaperman/
he said. I said, 'Charlie, this is awful/ and he told me
not to be foolish and not to worry, that no harm would
come to anyone. He asked me where I was and I told
him at Webber's, and he said he would be down right
away."

Rose said that they waited a considerable time for
Becker before he came and they talked in the doorway
of a building. Becker explained that he had dropped into
the West Forty-seventh Street stationhouse and learned
"they ain't got a thing." He quoted Becker as saying,
"I went in the back room and had a look at him [Rosen-
thai]. It was a pleasing sight to me. If Whitman had not
been there I would have cut his tongue out and hung
it somewhere as a warning to other squealers. Now the
only thing to do is to sit tight and don't worry. Let the
boys who did the job make a getaway and lay low for a
few days until this thing blows over. Everybody thinks
it is just another gang fight or a gambler's feud." Becker
then directed Rose to pay the gunmen one thousand dol-
lars. When Rose protested that he did not have that
kind of money, Becker borrowed it from Webber, say-

IT'S TIME To TELL

ing, "That'll make fifteen hundred 111 owe you. Ill slip
it to you in a few days."

Since it was no secret that Whitman had plenty of
ammunition to question Becker about his grafting activ-
ities, his lawyers kept the police lieutenant off the wit-
ness stand. A jury found Becker guilty and he was
sentenced to die in the electric chair.

A short time later the actual gunmen were placed on
trial, speedily convicted, and also sentenced to die.

Becker changed counsel after the trial and hired Joseph
Shay to handle his appeal. Shay was a well-known and
capable lawyer. The focal point of his attack of the con-
viction was the admission of Schepps's testimony.

While Becker's appeal was under consideration, the
appeal of the four gunmen was processed and denied,
and all were electrocuted. Almost sixteen months passed
before the high court ruled on the Becker case. The court
of appeals reversed the conviction and in discussing the
Harlem conference wrote:

"The story itself is grossly improbable and it is related
by four men of the vilest characters to save their own
lives. I admit . . . the People have to use the witnesses
available. But I emphatically deny that we are obliged
to sign the defendant's death warrant simply because
a jury has believed an improbable tale told by four vile
criminals to shift the death penalty from themselves to
another."

In a concurring opinion Judge Miller wrote: "The
story of the Harlem conference is incredible on its face
and the manner of its narration by the witnesses proves
it to be a pure fabrication."

The court stated that Becker could not be convicted

The Untold Story 173

unless the story of the Harlem conference was proved
more completely than had been done in the first trial.

I now want to name the man from whom I received
the confidential information about what happened after
the court of appeals reversed Becker's conviction. He was
Lloyd Willis, a highly respected reporter for the equally
highly respected New York Times. Willis and I were very
close friends for many years. He had left his paper to
serve as Whitman's secretary.

Willis told me in the strictest confidence that after
the decision from the higher court, Whitman was deter-
mined to get Shay, the successful lawyer for Becker, out
of the case. Shay was to defend Becker in his second trial.
The lawyer had a large negligence type of practice. There
was one blot on his record. Some years earlier, when
Jerome was the district attorney, one of Shay's runners
made an affidavit saying that he had solicited cases for
Shay. The lawyer was taken to the Tombs overnight and
later was suspended from practice for one year by the
Bar Association.

Whitman ordered his detectives to dig up all the in-
formation they could on Shay's activities. After receiving
the reports, Willis told me that Shay was called to a
secret two-hour conference with Whitman in the prose-
cutor's private office. No one was present but these two
men. The next day Shay announced his withdrawal from
the Becker case and advised his client to hire Martin
Manton, who later was convicted of accepting bribes
while he was a United State district court judge. Manton
was a specialist in negligence cases. He knew little, if
anything, about trying criminal cases and nothing about
the intricacies of criminal law. Becker followed Shay's

174 IT'S TIME To TELL

advice and hired a man with little practical experience in
a case where a man's life was at stake. I do not believe
that the suggestion that Manton be named came solely
from Shay. He knew too many capable criminal lawyers.

I knew Shay and shortly after he had dropped out of
the case I asked him why he was not defending Becker.
If he had won, it would have established his reputation as
one of the best lawyers in New York and it would have
been worth a fortune to him in future fees. He told me
he was too busy trying a number of accident cases he had
neglected. This was before Willis told me what had hap-
pened.

The reader can elect to believe that the two-hour con-
ference in Whitman's office with Shay was nothing more
than a social visit. Willis did not believe it and neither
do I. Whitman, in his anxiety to get Becker, overstepped
the bounds of fair play and justice he was denying a
defendant the right to his free choice of counsel to de-
fend him, a fundamental and basic right in our law.

With Shay out of the way, the next step was to find
a new witness to the conference that Rose, Webber,
Vallon and Schepps claimed had taken place in Harlem.
It was now over two years since the incident was supposed
to have occurred. His four talking witnesses came up with
information that James Marshall, a Negro tap dancer,
who had been a stool pigeon for Becker in getting evi-
dence against Negro gambling places in Harlem, might
be able to verify the story.

The task of finding Marshall was assigned to a young
deputy assistant district attorney in Whitman's office.
Marshall was found and once again Becker was placed
on trial. Marshall testified that he saw Becker and Rose

The Untold Story 175

together in Harlem one night about the vague time the
conference was assumed to have been held. The jury be-
lieved Marshall, and Becker again was convicted. The
court of appeals also accepted his testimony and the con-
viction this time was upheld.

However, what the jury, the court of appeals, and the
public never knew was that Marshall's testimony had
been obtained by direct threats from the district attor-
ney's office that he would be prosecuted for perjury on
a completely different matter. Nor was it known that for
weeks before the trial, Marshall had been accompanied
on his theatrical engagements by the young assistant dis-
trict attorney and a detective; that he was little more than
a prisoner, with the constant reminder by the presence
of the two men that he could be arrested for perjury.
This witness, too, was earning immunity from Whitman,
so it is possible that his testimony might be prejudiced
by that fact.

It was after the court of appeals upheld the conviction
that Marshall let part of the cat out of the bag. He told
two Philadelphia reporters that his testimony against
Becker had been false. The reporters notified Becker's
attorney, who obtained an affidavit from Marshall con-
tradicting the testimony he had given at the trail. Mar-
shall was brought back to New York and taken to the
district attorney's office. After a conference there he
signed a new affidavit repudiating his Philadelphia state-
ments and stating that his original testimony had been
the truth.

Whitman realized one part of his dream. On Novem-
ber 3, 1914, due largely to the publicity he had received
in prosecuting Becker, he was elected governor of New

176 IT'S TIME To TELL

York. He was holding that office when the court of ap-
peals upheld the second conviction and defense attorneys
had the task of appealing for executive clemency against
the death penalty to the very man who had prosecuted
Becker. It occasioned no great surprise when Whitman
turned down the appeal, clearing the way for the execu-
tion. There was criticism from some prominent people
who said Whitman should not have sat at the clemency
hearing. He replied that he did not have the authority
to abdicate or delegate any duties of the governor to any-
one else. Technically, he was correct, but he knew as well
as anybody else that if he had taken a brief vacation out
of the state at the time of the clemency hearing, the
acting governor would have had the power to make any
decision he thought proper and so Whitman would have
avoided placing himself in an awkward position. That
he did not do so may be considered an indication that
he wanted to be sure that no clemency was granted to
Becker.

Becker had planned to read a statement to reporters
in the death chamber, but when he was informed that
it would not be allowed, he issued what he termed, "My
Dying Statement," in advance. It read:

Gentlemen: I stand before you in my whole senses, knowing
that no power on earth can save me from the grave that is to
receive me. On the face of that, in the teeth of those who con-
demn me and in the presence of my God and your God, I pro-
claim my absolute innocence of the foul crime for which I must
die. You are now about to witness my destruction by the State,
which is organized to protect the lives of the innocent. May Al-
mighty God pardon everyone who has contributed in any de-
gree to my untimely death.

And now, on the brink of the grave, I declare to the world that

The Untold Story 177

I am proud to have been the husband of the purest, noblest wo-
man that ever lived Helen Becker. This acknowledgement is
the only legacy I can leave her. I bid you all good-bye. Father, I
am ready to go. Amenl

There is one further footnote to be added to this
strange case. After Becker's execution, the young assistant
district attorney who had obtained Marshall's testimony
against Becker was appointed a magistrate on the recom-
mendation of Whitman. About a year later he returned
home from a dinner he had attended and committed
suicide by shooting himself.

Whether Becker was innocent or guilty is a question
each reader will have to decide for himself. I have given
information not previously known and information
which may very well have influenced a jury to bring in
a different verdict. I never have been able to under-
stand why, if Becker ordered the shooting, he needed
so many intermediaries in plotting a murder.

While I have doubts as to the guilt of Becker for
the murder, I am in no way condoning his actions as a
crooked police officer. Graft and corruption exist and
will continue to exist as long as some people like to
gamble. There will always be those who will cater to this
desire. Since the profits are large, they are willing to pay
for protection and so corruption begins. Because few
citizens regard gambling as a heinous crime, people are
indifferent even when they know gambling is going
on all around them. The result of their indifference is
the weakening of the fabric of their own government
and they should not be surprised at the periodic corrup-
tion scandals that break out in any city, regardless of
size.

178 IT'S TIME To TELL

If I have learned anything in my almost one hundred
years on earth, it is the futility of legislating against the
desires of people where there is no clearly understood evil;
if it is debatable, then it is useless. My experiences in visit-
ing my first speak-easy back in the i88o's in Maine left no
doubt in my mind what would happen when that Noble
Experiment began in 1918. It was not the dregs of East-
port that I met in the back room of the candy store but
the very pillars of the town, the banker, the postmaster,
the leading merchants. We will have graft and corrup-
tion just as long as we have leading pillars who will
assist in the breaking of laws. This does not make it
right; grafters should be sought out and vigorously prose-
cuted, but it is a fact of life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Little Napoleon

FOR SOME UNEXPLAINED

reason the coroner's office seemed to attract an un-
usual number o characters. These included the law-
yers who hung around like leeches, the newspaper
reporters who covered the office, and the coroners them-
selves. I never knew what to expect.

One of the young reporters at that time was Raymond
Ditmars, who was working for the New York Times. He
sauntered into my room one day carrying a small, bat-
tered piece of luggage that was ready to fall apart and
asked if he could leave it with me. I dropped it onto the
floor next to my desk, a short distance away from my feet,
and he went off to make the rounds of the building. Sev-
eral times that morning I was disturbed by hissing sounds
and looked around but could see nothing.

Ditmars returned several hours later. Once again there
was the hissing noise and I looked around again.

179

i8o IT'S TIME To TELL

"Oh, my friend is angry," Ditmars said, opening the
bag. Out popped the head of a huge snake! He deftly
grabbed it, forced it back into the bag and closed it. Dit-
mars was torn between his work and his love of nature.
He left the newspaper and in time became curator of
reptiles of the New York Zoological Gardens and a world-
famous herpetologist. Ditmars had not been thoughtless;
he assured me that despite its dangerous appearance the
snake was harmless. I took his word for it, but accepted
no more packages from him.

There were many well-known newspapermen, includ-
ing Damon Runyon, John Ward O'Malley and Ike White,
who came to the office, particularly to cover inquests in
the important murder cases.

Although coroners were not judges, they could sit as
committing magistrates. Many of these men were from
humble orgins and some of them would have had difficulty
reading the simple words in comics. The wily lawyers who
specialized in practicing in our court would flatter these
men by constantly referring to them as "Your Honor,"
and with each mention of the phrase or title you could
almost see the coroners swell and puff with pride.

At one point I decided to record the remarks of one of
these lawyers to such a coroner who was presiding at an
inquest. "Your Honor," he began, "I think, Your Honor,
that we should, Your Honor . . ." The point of my pencil
snapped here and I decided I had enough.

The appearance of William Howe, who had teamed up
with Abe Hummel to form a notorious law firm, was al-
ways an event, particularly when he was facing a new
coroner. His reputation as one of the great courtroom
orators was widely known. He was a burly man who took

Little Napoleon 181

pride in his dazzlingly expensive clothes, with a fresh rose
or a carnation always pinned to his lapel, and a huge dia-
mond stud in the bosom o his shirt. He would overwhelm
the new man with his flow o multisyllabic words, his
citation of legal decisions, some of which he unquestion-
ably made up at the spur of the moment, and would
pretty much run the inquest the way he wanted. Since
these were mainly murder cases, his clients were held any-
way, but he enjoyed his own oratory.

Most new coroners suspected a murder plot in almost
every case involving an accidental death, and Antonio
Zucca, with whom I entered the office, was no exception.
Zucca had been born in Italy and became a very success-
ful and wealthy importer here. He was the president of
the Italian Chamber of Commerce and prominent in
many of his countrymen's social organizations. While he
spoke English fairly well, he did have a heavy accent.

One hot night we were notified that police had found
the body of a man lying on the sidewalk in front of a tene-
ment on Tenth Avenue near Fiftieth Street. We went to
the scene and learned that the dead man, Patrick Mc-
Carthy, had boarded with Mr. and Mrs. Michael Mulli-
gan, who lived on the top floor of the building.

The Mulligans said they had been drinking ale with
McCarthy and had left him seated at the open front win-
dow of the apartment when they went to bed. We learned
that Mulligan and McCarthy were good friends and that
the dead man was a heavy drinker. Both were husky long-
shoremen. No neighbors had heard any noise from the
Mulligan apartment and there were no indications that
any struggle had taken place. It appeared to be a clear
case of accidental death. McCarthy had probably leaned

IT'S TIME To TELL

out of the window in search of a vagrant breeze, lost his
balance and toppled to the street.

For no accountable reason the case looked suspicious to
Zucca, and he indicated to me that he would break the
Mulligans down at the inquest. Mrs. Mulligan took the
stand, told her story and then Zucca questioned her.

"Now, Madam," he inquired, "you're sure you no
make the goo-goo eyes at McCarthy, and he no make the
goo-goo eyes at you?"

The witness straightened in her chair. She folded her
massive arms across her ample bosom, glared at the coro-
ner and in a brogue you could cut with a knife said, "Goo-
goo eyes, and shure what are those?"

Zucca beat a hasty retreat. After listening to all the
witnesses the coroner's jury returned with a verdict of
accidental death, which I am sure it was.

But of all those I met in my years with the office it was
the man we called "Little Napoleon" who was my favor-
ite character. He was Julius Harburger, a Tammany Hall
leader of an assembly district, a professional office holder,
who in his long career had been a court clerk, an assembly-
man, excise commissioner, and finally was elected a coro-
ner.

Harburger was five feet five inches in height, wore a
drooping silvery white mustache, which, when he was
in a thoughtful frame of mind, he would pull at to the
fascination of spectators, and he had mild, kindly brown
eyes which he tried, in vain, to infuse with a look of harsh-
ness and authority. Because of his size he thought he bore
a startling resemblance to Napoleon, and a photograph
of this military! genius was on prominent display in his
office. He propbly regretted that modern clothes pre-

Little Napoleon 183

vented him from wearing the kind of costume Napoleon
had worn, and whenever called to the scene of a death,
he invariably would assume a Napoleonic pose, thrust-
ing one hand into his coat bosom and holding the other
clenched behind his back. Then he would walk back and
forth, snapping out occasional orders and comments on
the case. The only actual physical resemblance to Napo-
leon was his height.

Reporters doted on Harburger and he doted on them.
His one great passion was to get his name in the papers,
and he counted a day lost when some story using his name
did not appear. He did not mind how ridiculous a story
might make him appear, and when reporters learned this
they really poured it on at times. A story was a story to
him as long as his name was mentioned and spelled cor-
rectly. He could be ruthless and unscrupulous in maneu-
vering cases to get some publicity value out of them, but
at the same time he was thoroughly honest; he could not
be bribed, nor would he take political dictation where it
would thwart justice.

He was the bane of hotel owners and managers, and
they would turn livid at the sight of him. Harburger had
discovered that a death in a hotel usually was good for
at least a paragraph in a paper, since many guests were
well-known figures, and so he left standing orders that
he was to be notified immediately of any death in a hotel.
Such places, quite naturally, do not like to have their
names associated with death, whether it be from natural
causes, suicide, or, particularly, murder.

One evening Harburger was notified that a death had
occurred at the old Waldorf-Astoria, then at Thirty-
fourth Street and Fifth Avenue. The hotel doctor had

184 IT'S TIME To TELL

been called in when a guest was stricken with a heart
attack and had attended him during his final hours.
There was no question that death had been due to natural
causes. That made no difference to Harburger. He tele-
phoned several reporters, met them and descended on the
hotel. He arrived there at the time the lobby and the
hotel's famous "Peacock Alley" were crowded with people
for the dinner hour.

Flanked by the reporters, Harburger marched up to
the desk clerk and in a voice that could be heard clearly
fifty feet away bellowed that he had come to investigate a
death in the hotel.

The harried clerk whispered in an agitated voice for
him to step inside the office. "No, I won't step inside,"
Harburger shouted. "Take me to the body at once/' Ex-
cited guests by now were beginning to move toward the
desk.

The little coroner was rushed to the elevator with his
retinue. The manager, who had appeared by now, glanced
at the reporters. He knew very well who they were, but
he asked.

"They're my secretaries," Harburger retorted, and the
hotel man had to let them enter the elevator. Once up in
the hotel suite, he forced the grieving widow and the
hotel doctor to be sworn and answer questions. The ques-
tions were designed to fill in the reporters on the infor-
mation they wanted. Satisfied at last, he said the coroner's
physician would appear later to issue a death* certificate,
and departed. Actually, all that had been necessary in the
case, since a reputable doctor was involved, was to have
the coroner's physician go there and issue the certificate.
If the physician had not been satisfied, he then could have

Little Napoleon 185

notified the coroner that an investigation was necessary.
But the grateful reporters used the story, and Harburger's
name appeared in the papers.

One of his most notable exploits was his one-man as-
sault upon the Imperial German Navy of Kaiser Wilhelm
II.

His Majesty's cruiser, Heriha, had anchored in the
North River for an official visit to New York. While trans-
ferring coal aboard the vessel, one of the sailors was killed
when a sack fell on him. A foreign warship is beyond the
jurisdiction of the New York police, the coroner, or even
the United States government. It was German territory
and the exclusive business of the Imperial Navy. The only
way we even knew of the death was through a request
from the commander of the vessel asking permission to
have the man buried ashore with naval honors.

As soon as he heard about it, Coroner Harburger
dashed to a police launch and directed a patrolman to
take him to the Hertha's landing ladder.

When the launch approached the side of the warship,
an officer called down and inquired what was wanted.
Harburger shouted back that he was the coroner and
wanted to come aboard to investigate the death of the
sailor. The startled officer coldly informed Harburger
that he had no business aboard the vessel.

"Oh, but I'm the coroner, you know," the irrepres-
sible little man shouted back. "Look. Here's my shield."
He then stated that he would refuse to allow the body to
be taken ashore until he had made an investigation. The
baffled officer, not knowing that Harburger possessed no
such power, consulted with the ship's commander, and
Harburger was invited aboard. He was taken to the chief

i86 IT'S TIME To TELL

medical officer, who assured him the sailor's death had
been an accident. The medical officer bowed, Harburger
bowed, and he left.

Upon returning to our office, his first action was to call
in newsmen and he related word-for-word his adventure.
He also said, "I think that this is the first time in the
history of the coroner's office that a coroner has gone
aboard a foreign man-of-war to investigate a case. They
tried to stop me from going aboard, but I let them under-
stand that Coroner Julius Harburger was not to be in-
timidated in the performance of his duties."

The press gave Harburger full treatment and each
story was funnier than the next. A thin-skinned man
would have left town for several days, but Harburger
enjoyed every word written and was willing to show you
the clippings at a moment's notice.

What pleased Harburger the most was to be connected
with a mystery, since this meant that it would be a con-
tinuing story in the paper and he would be quoted in
addition to having his name printed. Such mysteries do
not happen often, and Harburger would do his best to
create one.

On the morning of October i, 1906, Al Adams, the
notorious policy king, who had recently been released
from jail, was found dead in his room at the Ansonia
Hotel. There was a bullet hole in his temple, and a .44-
caliber Colt revolver was lying on the floor by his chair.
Coroner Harburger was on duty when the call came in.

His first act, as usual, was to notify the newspapers and
he asked that reporters be sent to meet him at the Ansonia.
Detectives, who already had made their investigation,
knew that it was a case of suicide.

Little Napoleon 1 87

Harburger went to the room, viewed the body, ex-
amined the gun, and then questioned every single em-
ployee in the hotel from the manager to the last bellhop.
The weary detectives suggested at the end that Harburger
close it out as a suicide so that they could get back to
their other work. The little coroner would hear no such
talk. He knew that if he called it a suicide, the case would
be over in the newspapers and his publicity short-lived.
But if he kept the case open and hinted at murder, there
would be high excitement in the press, at least until after
the inquest, and the inquest itself would be fully re-
ported.

When he went down to the lobby he met the reporters
who already had received the essential facts from the de-
tectives. They simply were waiting for the official verdict
"It is a suicide?" one of them asked.

Harburger drew himself up into his Napoleonic pose
and replied with an extremely serious expression on his
face, "Boys, it looks very suspicious. I must investigate the
case further. It may be a murder."

That was enough for the reporters. They broke for the
telephones and soon the presses were rolling with head-
lines quoting Harburger that the Adams death might be
a murder.

This went on for several days, until the inquest. There
had been no further investigation by our office because
there was nothing to investigate.

The owner of the hotel was Stokes, a financier. He was
frantic at the unfavorable publicity, since the daily stories
always mentioned his hotel. He had talked to police and
to District Attorney Jerome and knew they were con-
vinced that Adams had shot himself.

i88 IT'S TIME To TELL

Shortly before the inquest began, Stokes walked into
Harburger's office, refused to shake hands with him, and
berated him for what he was doing to his hotel. He said
there had been ten thousand dollars' worth of room can-
cellations.

Harburger was not to be slighted in his own office. "I
want you to know that this is the most important office of
the people," he yelled.

The two men then began trading shouted insults and
at one point when Stokes, who was perspiring freely,
reached for a handkerchief, Harburger bellowed, "Are
you going to pull the gun that you used on Al Adams?" He
knew reporters were congregated outside his door.

When the inquest opened, Harburger described the
circumstances of Adams' death and said to the jury, "It
is for you gentlemen to decide, after hearing the testi-
mony of the witnesses, whether this is a suicide or a
murder." He then stared at Stokes and added, "If you
find that it is a murder, the murderer may be sitting in
this room."

Stokes started to his feet and had to be pulled back by
his lawyer.

The testimony was short and to the point. There was
absolutely no evidence of any kind to indicate that the
case was anything but a suicide. Although Harburger
tried to stretch out the proceedings by having the jury
retire to consider a verdict, the foreman announced that
it would not be necessary; the jury already had reached
the conclusion that Adams had shot himself.

Despite his ardent belief in the value of publicity of
any kind, Harburger, to his bitter disappointment, was
defeated when he ran for re-election.

Little Napoleon 189

With his political connections, he could not be kept
down. Tammany Hall had him appointed a deputy state
comptroller and later rewarded him with a term of sheriff,
one of the most lucrative posts in the city. The sheriff's
office was largely a civil one concerned with the service
of papers for which the sheriff collected a fee. Many men
became wealthy from the legal fees they collected in that
office.

Harburger was not particularly happy there, despite
the money, because there was little chance for publicity.
He had greatly cherished his office as coroner because of
the opportunities it gave him for getting his name in the
papers. As a matter of fact, few offices in the city, with the
exception of the mayor and the district attorney, were so
much in the public eye.

He sent for reporters on one occasion while sheriff to
expound on the theory that the electric chair might only
stun the victim and that the real execution occurred when
the doctor performed an autopsy after the electrocution.
He remarked that his interest was aroused because of
cases of temporary suspended animation that he had ob-
served as coroner. When reporters questioned me, I had
to tell them that we never had heard of a case of sus-
pended animation in the coroner's office. His suggestion
that he be allowed to attend an electrocution and attempt
to revive the man was rejected by the prison warden.

When he died in 1914, the New York Sun referred to
him as unique in the political and municipal activities
of which he was a part. He was not created after any
model, and everybody who met him will say there never
will be another man like Julius Harburger.

I have no doubt that had Harburger been alive to

igo IT'S TIME To TELL

read the tribute, he would have agreed without reser-
vation to everything that was said about him. There is
no question that he enriched joyously the archives of the
city.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Fresh Breeze

THE CORRUPTION SCANDALS

caused by the greed of some coroners, the undisputed
fact that politicians could and did fix cases before
coroner's juries, and the appalling incompetence of
some of the coroners and coroner's physicians led to a
demand by doctors, lawyers and others for the abolition
of the office and its replacement by the medical examiner
system.

When John P. Mitchell, a reform mayor, took office
in 1914, he asked Commissioner of Accounts Leonard
M. Wallstein to investigate the coroner's office. Even
though Wallstein missed most of the real scandals of
the office, and Mayor Mitchell even had to apologize for
some of the unfounded rumors the commissioner accepted
as true without any investigation, the few actual facts that
Wallstein did bring out shocked the public.

Wallstein's report, issued the following year, pointed

192 IT'S TIME To TELL

out what we already knew; that some of the coroners
were virtually illiterate, that many were political hacks
who had been plumbers, milkmen, saloonkeepers. One
was even a tombstone cutter. There was nothing wrong
or dishonorable with their previous occupations, but
their working experiences hardly qualified them for the
important position they held. Only some of the coroners
had been doctors.

Most of the coroner's physicians were not qualified to
do autopsy work and the few who were became the work
horses of the office. All the important cases were assigned
to them, whether they were on duty or not, and they re-
mained in office as coroners came and went to make
certain that we could function. I believe that some of
the coroner's physicians were graduates of diploma mills
rather than reputable medical schools. There were a few
whose medical ability I so doubted that I would not have
trusted them to prescribe an aspirin for a common cold.
These men were political appointees selected for their
ability to swing votes and not a scalpel.

Wallstein's report left little doubt as to what he
thought of these doctors when he wrote:

Numerous homicides have undoubtedly failed of detection by
reason of the incompetent work of the coroner's physicians. The
character of their medical examination may be judged from the
fact that the keeper of the morgue testified that they often merely
looked at the head of the body and that an examination lasting
five minutes was an infrequent occasion. Some of the coroner's
physicians have favorite causes of death which, without shadow
of reason, they are in the habit of assigning in cases of doubt.

The legislature in 1915 passed a law abolishing the
coroner's office and ordered it to be replaced by the medi-

The Fresh Breeze 193

cal examiner system. A delay was granted, though, with
the new office to go into effect on January i, 1918.

Let me say at this point that both parties, the Demo-
crats and the Republicans, were equally guilty in bring-
ing the coroner's office into disrepute. As I mentioned
earlier, two of the worst crooks in the office were elected
to replace Tammany men. Yet the coroner's office could
and did do important work.

Like almost all reform mayors, Mitchell lasted just one
term, losing his bid for re-election, and John F. Hylan,
"Red Mike," as he became known because of his flaming
hair, took office on January i, 1918. It was the duty of
the new mayor to appoint the new chief medical examiner
and start the office going. The appointment was to be
made from a list of men who had passed a special ex-
amination qualifying them for lifetime appointment.
One of the purposes of the new office was to remove it
from the influence of politics which a lifetime appoint-
ment guaranteed.

The new mayor appointed Dr. Patrick Reardon, a
former coroner, as chief medical examiner, and explained
that Dr. Reardon's appointment was strictly a temporary
one, which could be made legally for thirty days, in order
to give him time to study the qualifications of the various
candidates.

Dr. Charles Norris was appointed on February 18, 1918.
Although technically he was the second man to hold the
office, he always has been considered the first chief medi-
cal examiner of New York City because he was the first
qualified man, and a fresh breeze blew through what was
once the coroner's office. Dr. Norris was not a political
appointee; in fact, his only flaw was an almost pathologi-

194 IT'S TIME To TELL

cal dislike of politicians; to him, they were all bad. His
appointment had been demanded by the people because
he was so eminently qualified. He was recognized as one
of this country's outstanding pathologists, had taught the
subject at the Columbia University medical school, and
had been director for many years of the Bellevue Hospital
laboratories.

He brought with him a tremendous enthusiasm and a
brilliant and inquiring mind that was never satisfied with
anything but perfection. Startled young doctors, who
already were making a name for themselves in pathology
and allied fields, found themselves dragooned into serving
as his assistants at salaries far below what they could have
earned elsewhere, and they stayed.

Well over six feet tall and weighing some two hundred
pounds, Dr. Norris even in middle age looked like a
plunging football back, and he had been a member of
one of Yale's great football teams. When I first met him
his hair was graying, as were his mustache and his trim
Van Dyke. He had shaggy eyebrows which were whiter
than his hair, and the contrast made his dark eyes appear
even more stern and piercing than they were.

In reality, he was a very kind man. He hadn't been in
office very long when he realized that while some of the
medical assistants he had to retain were competent, they
were not of the top-drawer quality he was demanding. He
did not want to embarrass these men or injure their re-
putations, and he asked me what could be done. I quietly
arranged to have them transferred to other city depart-
ments where their qualifications were more suitable, and
they were happy to escape from the office.

Although I had always been considered the secretary

The Fresh Breeze 195

to the board of coroners, there was no such authorized
position. But the new medical examiner's office did pro-
vide for an official secretary, and Dr. Norris appointed
me to this post. I was to work closely with him during the
sixteen years that I remained with the office.

He assembled his staff with great care and appointed
Dr. Alexander O. Gettler as his toxicologist. These two
men, Dr. Norris and Dr. Gettler, were indefatigable.
Long after everybody else had gone home they were at
work in the laboratory, blazing new trails that made
medico-legal history and transformed a run-down office
into the outstanding one in the world.

There was one important difference between the med-
ical examiner system and the former coroner procedure.
Immediately upon notification of a homicide or a sus-
picious death, it was the Chief or one of his assistants
who went at once to the scene. No one was allowed to
touch the body until one of them arrived. All of these
men were skilled pathologists and experts in microscopy.
The undisturbed scene often could tell them as much as
an autopsy.

When Dr. Norris entered the office he discovered that
there was very little reliable information available on
gunshot wounds. He promptly collected a sample of every
type of weapon known and then he and a detective spent
weeks discharging the guns into all kinds of available
material, from every possible angle, and at varying ranges.
When he finished he had compiled data on powder burns
and shot patterns that still is a standard in use all over
the world.

A new breed of detective was making its way into the
force. Men who looked upon their work as a career, eager

196 IT'S TIME To TELL

and anxious to learn, they flocked to the morgue to watch
autopsies and receive pointers from Dr. Morris. He was
"Chief" to everybody and it got so that he rarely heard
his own name mentioned.

He was particularly interested in performing the au-
topsies in homicide cases and there always was a circle
of men around him as he worked and explained his find-
ings.

On one of these typical days at the morgue, the Chief
would perform several post-mortems and then ask the
detectives to join him. He had fixed up a small cluttered
office next to the morgue proper that was called the
Country Club. He would bring out a bottle of rye from a
closet one was always there, even during prohibition
and then he would discuss the fine points of detecting
murder. If anybody praised him for his incredible skill
in ferreting out signs of homicide, his favorite retort was,
"Go easy on that detective stuff, old man. You can't make
an old son of a sea cook like me into a detective. You can't
make a fat-bellied doctor into a sleuth." Secretly, he was
pleased.

When Vincent Coll, the gangster known as the Mad
Dog, was machine-gunned by his enemies while in a tele-
phone booth on West Twenty-third Street, Dr. Morris
took a scientific interest in the wounds.

He promptly issued a warning to police that the open
emergency wagons they were using in responding to riot
calls were useless against such a weapon. "One man
with a machine gun could stand in a second-story window
and wipe out an entire wagon of police," he said. "The
men wouldn't have a fighting chance."

Coil's body had at least eighteen bullet holes, and

The Fresh Breeze 197

Dr. Norris said that each machine-gun bullet had left
a hole as big as the bottom of a teacup, as if the flesh
had been hacked out with a hatchet. Police switched
to closed emergency wagons.

Dr. Norris was doubted by police just once, when he
first came into office. A patrolman walking his beat in
the early morning hours on the Brooklyn waterfront,
passed a man carrying a heavy bundle over his shoulders.
More bored than suspicious, he asked the man what he
was carrying.

"Just my working clothes," the other replied. "I'm
on my way to work at the next pier."

The officer told him to go ahead and resumed his
walk, twirling his club. As he reached the next corner
he glanced back and saw that the man had deposited
his bundle on the stringpiece of a dock and was watching
him. His suspicions now aroused, the alert officer started
to go back. When the man on the dock noticed this,
he hurriedly kicked the bundle into the water and started
running. The officer set out in pursuit and grabbed the
man, who still insisted it was just his old clothes he had
thrown away.

The prisoner was taken to the local precinct where
he was identified as Francisco Trapia, a longshoreman
living on Sackett Street in Brooklyn. Officers were sent
to the pier and started dragging for the bundle thrown
into the water, while others went to the Sackett Street
tenement and broke open the door of Trapia's flat.
Propped up against the kitchen wall was the headless
torso of a woman. Near it lay her severed head. The arms
and legs were missing.

Trapia was rushed back, under police escort, to his

198 IT'S TIME To TELL

flat and as soon as he entered the kitchen he broke down
and confessed. He admitted cutting up the torso. He said
that he and the woman had been drinking heavily and
when he awakened he found her dead. He reasoned
that he must have killed her during the night and he cut
up the body hoping to dispose of it.

Our office was notified as a matter of routine, and Dr.
Norris hurried to the tenement with one of his Brooklyn
assistants. The Chief examined the head and torso of the
woman, noticed the familiar cherry-red mottling that
indicated monoxide poisoning, and told the open-
mouthed detectives that it did not look like murder at
all, but like death from asphyxiation caused by a faulty
stove flue. The remains were taken to the morgue
for an autopsy.

With a confession from the longshoreman on their
hands, police went ahead with their arrest, and the dis-
trict attorney agreed with them, obtaining an indictment
for first-degree murder. During the trial the officer
testified how he had observed the suspicious actions of
Trapia, other officers told of finding the severed remains,
and Trapia's confession was read. There was little doubt
that a jury at that point would have convicted the long-
shoreman. The defense called Dr. Norris to the stand,
and his autopsy report made it plain that the woman
had died in her sleep from the odorless but deadly fumes
escaping from the stove. The husky longshoreman
habitually arose early, and this probably saved his life.
He was groggy, thought it was due to a hang-over and
opened die windows. When he discovered the woman
was dead, he panicked and thought he had killed her.
The man was promptly acquitted by a jury. Dr. Norris

The Fresh Breeze 199

established that the medical examiner's office was not
interested in obtaining convictions but was interested in
the truth.

On another occasion, it was this scrupulous fidelity
to truth that turned a seemingly natural death into
murder.

A group of men of Greek descent were playing cards
when Constantinos Zalianos was stabbed by George
Valsopolous. The latter disappeared while Zalianos was
taken to the hospital, where to the surprise of doctors
he recovered. The injured man had no interest in press-
ing charges, and police discontinued their search. Several
years passed, Zalianos became ill and died. Everybody
assumed that it was due to natural causes, but Dr. Norris
recalled the severe stab wounds and ordered an autopsy.
The medical findings showed that the long-delayed death
still was due to the effects of the knife wounds. Police
traced Valsopolous to New Jersey. He was arrested and
convicted.

Dr. Norris always referred to the murder of Joseph B.
Elwell, the bridge expert, as "the classic mystery/' Few
people know that this celebrated case was almost closed
out by police and the district attorney as a suicide, and
it was only upon Dr. Norris' insistence that they finally
realized they had a puzzling murder on their hands, one
which is still listed as unsolved.

It was about eight-ten on the morning of June 11,
1920, when Mrs. Marie Larsen, Elwell's housekeeper, ar-
rived at his private house on West Seventieth Street. She
entered the vestibule, picked up a bottle of milk, and
then let herself in with her key.

As she walked by the living room she noticed some

s>oo IT'S TIME To TELL

letters on the floor and glanced into the room. The
bridge expert, clad in pajamas and barefooted, was
slumped in a chair, a bullet hole in the exact center
of his forehead. He was alive and breathing noisily. The
housekeeper at first failed to recognize him because he
was not wearing his toupee and his false teeth. He was
never seen without either.

The frightened woman ran shrieking out into the
street, stopped a milkman and asked him to get help,
but meanwhile kept running up the block until she
found a patrolman. The officer returned with her and
asked the milkman to help him.

"When I entered," the milkman said later, "I saw the
wounded man sitting in a chair. His head was hanging
over the chair, his right arm hanging limp, with the
fingers sort of crooked. There was a pool of blood on
the floor just back of the chair, and blood was flowing
from a wound in his forehead. It looked to me as if he'd
been shot just a few minutes before I saw him. I thought
it was suicide."

And so did Captain Arthur Carey, veteran head of the
homicide squad, and District Attorney Edward Swann.
Elwell had been internationally known, and the shooting
of such a man had sent both of them racing to the house.
Elwell already had been taken by ambulance to the
hospital, but everything else had been left untouched.
Although Elwell still was alive, Dr. Norris also was
notified and he went to the scene.

There was much in the early information police
gathered to support a suicide theory. Elwell had received
his morning mail. Detectives established that the post-
man had delivered the letters at seven-thirty-five, ringing

The Fresh Breeze 201

the bell twice. Elwell probably had come downstairs
from his bedroom to get the letters. He was a vain person,
and the fact that he was not wearing his toupee and his
dentures indicated that he was not expecting visitors.
The mailman had gone up and down the stoops on the
street for ten minutes, the house had been in his sight
all that time, and he had not seen anyone near the Elwell
home.

Nothing was disturbed inside. There were no indica-
tions of any struggle. Elwell had been seated in a chair
in the living room. Just one shot, a .45, had been fired,
and the bullet had gone through his skull, hit the wall
behind him, where it gouged out some plaster, and then
richocheted to the top of a lamp table beside him. His
wallet, containing four hundred dollars in cash, was up-
stairs in his room near his hairpiece and dentures. Mrs.
Larsen arrived at eight-ten and saw nobody. A milkman
working on the block also said the street had been de-
serted. Elwell still was bleeding profusely, indicating
the shooting had occurred not too long before Mrs. Lar-
sen arrived. There was no gun around, but police already
had learned that Mrs. Larsen had hidden a woman's
pink nightgown to avoid embroiling her employer in any
scandal and so they reasoned that she also had hidden
the gun, despite her denials. It is not at all uncommon
for friends or members of a family to hide a weapon
in an attempt to disguise a suicide.

After observing the scene, Dr. Morris went to the
hospital, where he was informed that Elwell was dying.
He left instructions to be notified as soon as death oc-
curred because he wanted to perform an immediate
autopsy.

202 IT'S TIME To TELL

Meanwhile, District Attorney Swann ordered Dr. Otto
Schultze, his medical assistant, to investigate. The latter
arrived at Bellevue just after Elwell died and before Dr.
Norris could reach the morgue.

Dr. Schultze examined the body and stated that the
wound had been self-inflicted. He was a well-known
pathologist and had served as a coroner's psysician, dur-
ing the course of which service he had performed some
six thousand autopsies. In addition, he also held the chair
of medical jurisprudence at a medical school. He based
his suicide verdict on the powder marks on Elwell's fore-
head which showed the gun had been fired at close
range.

When Dr. Norris arrived, he performed an autopsy
and flatly contradicted Dr. Schultze. He insisted Elwell
had been murdered and told Carey and Swann:

"Elwell was drilled through the head, right in the
center of his eyebrows. There was about three inches of
powder burns around the wound indicating that the
revolver had been held at least four or five inches away.
He could never have inflicted that wound himself. No
man can hold a forty-five calibre that far away and shoot
himself straight through the head."

Those weeks Dr. Norris had spent in firing the differ-
ent weapons and measuring the powder burns now
proved their value. Carey and Swann finally agreed that
they had a murder on their hands, although it took a
thorough search of the house and neighborhood before
the prosecutor would admit it. "Only for the disappear-
ance of the gun I would be convinced that Elwell was a
suicide/' he commented.

Mrs. Larsen said that Elwell also employed a secretary

The Fresh Breeze 203

and a chauffeur but lived alone in the large home, the
employees leaving by 6:00 P.M. He usually dined out.

A search of the house soon disclosed why Elwell pre-
ferred to have no help about after dark. In an adjoining
bedroom, detectives found an expensive pink nightgown
and a matching pair of slippers. Mrs. Larsen said she
did not know the name of the woman who wore the
garments and she indicated there had been a steady
parade of women in Elwell's life.

This was verified by a search of his desk. A card
index contained the names, initials, nicknames, addresses
and telephone numbers of fifty-three different women.
There also were hundreds of photographs of women from
different strata of society, some, members of society,
others, chorus girls. Concealed under several pads of
paper was a list of women with notations alongside each
showing that Elwell had been sending them checks every
month. Canceled checks and voucher stubs indicated
that he had pensioned off many of his ex-mistresses.

Telephone records showed that Elwell had received
an incoming call at 3:00 A.M. and at 4:30 A.M. had
placed the first of two calls to Far Rockaway, neither
of which was answered.

Elwell had opened just one of the letters he had re-
ceived. It was from his horse trainer in Covington and
reported on the condition of several horses he owned.

About noon a woman telephoned and asked for Elwell.
A quick-thinking detective told her to come right over,
that Elwell was sick. A short time later an attractive
brunette hurried up the front steps, ran a gauntlet of re-
porters and entered the house. Authorities refused to re-
veal her identity to newspaper reporters, although they

204 IT'S TIME To TELL

admitted she was the woman who wore the pink night-
gown. Reporters dubbed her "The Lady in Pink."

She was Viola Kraus, member of a socially prominent
family. Her sister was married to Walter Lewisohn. She
was able to account for the murdered man's time the
previous evening. She and Elwell had dined at the Ritz-
Carlton with her sister and brother-in-law. It was in the
nature of a celebration party; she had just received her
final divorce decree that day from Victor von Schlegell,
a former Yale football star and a wealthy executive. As
they were being seated, a couple was ushered to an
adjoining table. It was von Schlegell and an attractive
blonde.

She said there had been an awkward pause for a few
moments, but Elwell and von Schlegell, who had known
each other for years, nodded cordially and the two groups
ignored each other after that. Following dinner they
went to the New Amsterdam Theater roof where they
were joined by Octavio Figueroa, a well-known South
American journalist. While they were telling him of their
experiences at the Ritz-Carlton, von Schlegell and his
blond companion stepped off the elevator for the second
encounter of the night.

Miss Kraus added that her ex-husband left after the
performance but their group remained until 2:00 A.M. She
and Elwell quarreled just before their party broke up.
When they emerged on the street, all except Elwell piled
into one taxi. They lived on the East Side, while his home
was on the West Side.

A taxidriver was found who had picked up Elwell near
the theater shortly after 3:00 A.M. He had been alone and
asked to be taken to his home. He had stopped once to

The Fresh Breeze 205

buy a racing paper. The cabbie said he had remained
parked in front of the house to make out his route sheet
and saw Elwell enter the house alone, using his key.
His route sheet showed the time of arrival at two-thirty.

Miss Kraus said she had made the incoming call at
3:00 A.M. She had telephoned to patch up their spat and
had made a golfing date for later that day. Her call at
noon had been made to verify the arrangements.

Von Schlegell was able to present an airtight alibi of
his movements. He said the two meetings on the previous
night had been a coincidence that is bound to happen in
New York where certain hotels and cafes are considered
the smart place to go. His companion was a voice student,
who had been leaving that night for Minneapolis, and he
had allowed her to select the places to which she wanted
to go. The young woman was contacted in her home
town, returned to New York and confirmed von
Schlegell's statements. The couple later were married.

The two calls Elwell had made to Far Rockaway were
to the number of W. H. Pendleton, Elwell's partner in a
racing stable. Pendleton said he had been home and had
not received any calls during the night. An extension
telephone was in a maid's room where she took calls
when her employer was out. She also stated the telephone
had not rung during the night. Pendleton added that
Elwell had never called him at that early hour in the
three years of their association.

At one time Elwell had passed out keys to his home
to the various women in his life, but just two weeks
before he was shot, he realized that this could lead to an
embarrassing situation if two of them came at the same
time, and so he had changed his lock. Only two keys

so6 IT'S TIME To TELL

were made for the new lock, one for himself and the
other for his housekeeper.

About the only thing police learned from their inquiry
into the fifty-three women listed on the index cards was
that Elwell had been most discreet in his affairs of the
heart and had managed to carry them on without any
scandal. He had been separated from his wife for several
years and gave her two hundred dollars a month plus sup-
port for their son. One of the unopened letters had been
from his son, who was away at school. His wife had been
satisfied with the financial arrangements and knew that
she was not mentioned in his will, so she could gain
nothing by his death.

It was equally puzzling as to how the killer had en-
tered and left. A painter was at work next door when
the mailman deposited the letters for Elwell. He saw
the housekeeper arrive and witnessed her dash outside a
minute later shouting for help. He had not seen anybody
enter or leave the house from the time the mailman called
until Mrs. Larsen arrived, nor had he heard any shot.
Neighbors, some of whom were on the street on their way
to work during the fateful hour, also said they had noticed
no strangers nor had they heard any shot.

The search for the missing .45 was thorough. Three
tons of coal in the basement were moved piece by piece.
Chimneys were scrutinized, floors and ceilings tapped for
hidden compartments, and all sewers in the area searched.
Several dozen patrolmen ruined their dispositions and
appetites as they raked through all garbage collected in
Manhattan that day. The missing weapon was never
found.

Police have expressed doubt that Elwell's killer was

The Fresh Breeze 207

a woman because a .45 automatic is not the kind o
weapon a woman would use, and also because it is un-
likely that the vain Elwell would have admitted a woman
without his wig and false teeth. I'm not so certain. If the
gun was the only weapon a woman had ready access to,
she would have taken it regardless of its caliber. The
fact that Elwell made no struggle, no attempt to escape,
could indicate that he thought the holder of the gun was
bluffing. He would be more likely to think that of a
woman than of a man. It is not unlikely that some of the
women in his life discovered the secret of his hair and
teeth during their love-making. One thing is certain.
Whoever murdered the playboy bridge expert has kept
his or her mouth shut tight during the passing years.

Dr. Norris clashed with Dr. Schultze on one other case,
this time Dr. Norris contending that it was a suicide and
the other that it was a murder. Arthur Train, who created
the famous "Mr. Tutt" stories, was the defense counsel
in this case.

The body of a young woman was found on the side-
walk in front of a building on Amsterdam Avenue. While
a patrolman was examining it, a man thrust his head out
of the window, five stories above, and called out asking
if anything was wrong. Told there was a dead woman on
the street, Michael Troy came rushing down in his
pajamas and identified the woman as his wife, Bessie,
twenty-two.

Mike and Bessie had been married the previous May.
It was now December. He was a caddy at Van Cortland
Park, while his bride was employed as a page at a hotel
where her father was house electrician.

Troy said that he had gone to bed before his wife came

2o8 IT'S TIME To TELL

home from work. He woke up at two-thirty, got a drink
of water and noticed that Bessie had come home but ap-
parently had gone out again. It was at this point that he
heard the commotion on the street and called out.

Assistant Medical Examiner George Hohmann made
the autopsy, and Dr. Norris agreed with his findings that
the girl had killed herself. The body was taken to her
parents' home in New Jersey and burial was held there.
Her father was unwilling to believe that a bride of a few
months could have taken her own life and he protested
against the failure of authorities to make a proper in-
quiry. Dr. Schultze obtained permission to perform an
autopsy. He reported finding ''contusions on the throat"
which he said were signs that the girl had been strangled.
He was certain she had been murdered. Some blood had
been found on the pillow in Troy's bedroom. He was
indicted for first-degree murder.

The young man's father had been a gardener on the
estate of William Earl Dodge and he appealed to Dodge
for help in defending his son. Arthur Train had been
a successful lawyer in New York before he began his
writing career, and he was hired to defend Mike
Troy.

The defense wanted Dr. Norris to make a second
autopsy, but he felt it would be far better to have a
complete outside opinion, and Dr. George B. Magrath,
the noted Boston medical examiner, was brought in. The
body of the girl was exhumed.

Puffing on his inevitable cigar, Dr. Norris later told
me about it. "George," he said, "Dr. Magrath did a
beautiful piece of work. Wonderful. There was a beauti-
ful blood aspiration in the lungs that proved the woman

The Fresh Breeze 209

was alive and breathing when she hit the sidewalk."
She had not been strangled.

With the testimony of Drs. Norris, Magrath and Hoh-
mann, Troy was acquitted. Why did Bessie Troy, young
and newly married, take her own life? That mystery was
buried with her. An autopsy can tell how a person died
but it cannot probe the mind.

Dr. Norris had one blind spot. His dislike of politicians
and of what they had done with the coroner's jury so
prejudiced him that even though the law specifically gave
the medical examiner the right to hold inquests, he re-
fused to do so. While there may be less need for an in-
quest in murder cases as long as we have an efficient
police department and a district attorney, there is a
serious need for inquests in accident cases of various
kinds. Without such inquiries the public is not only de-
fenseless against practices that should be remedied but
often remains unaware of the true causes. It was an in-
quest held by the coroner's office, for example, that
brought out the causes for the high death toll in the
Triangle Shirtwaist factory. The jury recommended the
establishment of a fire-prevention bureau within the fire
department. This was done and has saved countless lives.
Inquests can serve a very useful function for public
welfare. After some years Dr. Norris did come around
to my view, but he pointed out that the limited budget
and the heavy case load made it impractical for him to
start holding inquests and he recommended in a report
that the city appoint a magistrate to hold such hearings.
Nothing was done, and I still feel that it is a function of
the medical examiner's office to do so. At the time of my

210 IT'S TIME To TELL

twenty-fifth anniversary with the office I spoke out pub-
licly against this failure.

Dr. Norris was impatient with such matters as budgets,
and during his early years in office hostile politicians de-
liberately shortchanged the medical examiner. Twice
during this period he tried to resign. The first time Mayor
Hylan got him to take it back. On the other occasion I
stole his letter of resignation until I could get his assist-
ants to talk him out of it.

He was independently wealthy and he paid for equip-
ment out of his own pocket. He also used his own funds
to pay for a stenographer who took dictation of findings
as a post-mortem was being made.

Dr. Norris showed his contempt for politicians when
they suddenly created the office of chief assistant and
wanted him to appoint a certain member of the staff, who
was a holdover from the coroner system, to that post.
Dr. Norris accepted the new office with great joy. He felt
he now could reward a man who deserved it and he gave
the position to Dr. Thomas A. Gonzales, one of the
talented men he had persuaded to work with him. He
ignored the man the politicians wanted appointed. He
had made a wise selection. It was Dr. GonzaJ.es who suc-
ceeded to the office after Dr. Norris died.

I was pleased when in the same year that I reached
retirement age and had to leave the office, the brilliant
work of Dr. Norris was formally recognized. On Decem-
ber 6, 1934, five hundred doctors gathered in the audi-
torium of the New York Academy of Medicine to watch
as he received a gold medal for distinguished service in
medicine. The citation accompanying the award read:

"He has carried on in spite of political handicaps and

The Fresh Breeze 211

has been a great factor in cleaning up the very undesir-
able conditions which in former times existed in the
coroner's office."

Dr. Norris continued in office until his unexpected
death, after one day's illness, on September 1 1, 1935. The
world-wide reputation of the New York medical exam-
iner's office is his monument.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Singed Butterfly

A MYSTERIOUS TELE-

phone call from a private detective thrust me into the
opening phases of the murder of a typical Broadway
butterfly and the frantic efforts of a multimillionaire so-
cial figure to cover up his own role in one of New York's
most sensational cases of this century. I think this murder
might have been solved if Dr. Charles Norris, the chief
medical examiner, had listened to my pleas and con-
ducted an inquiry.

There was nothing unusual about the report our office
received from police headquarters shortly before noon
on March 15, 1923. A Dot King, according to the in-
formation given us, had been found dead in her apart-
ment at 144 West Fifty-seventh Street. ''Nothing sus-
picious, no doctor/* was the notation written on the slip
by the clerk receiving the report from police.

When a person dies in New York City without a doctor

212

The Singed Butterfly % \ 3

in attendance, the law requires the death certificate to
be issued by the medical examiner, and so the Chief or
an assistant always goes to the scene. With more than five
thousand deaths that must be checked each year, there
is a heavy case load each day, and such routine notifica-
tions are among the last to be visited. Murders, suspected
homicides and accidents are given preference since these
require immediate police action and the bodies cannot
be moved until an examination is made at the scene by
our office. The chief usually goes out only on important
murder cases.

As part of my duties as secretary, I handled the assign-
ment of cases. Dr. Cassassa, an assistant medical examiner,
telephoned during the afternoon, and I added the King
case to his list. He mentioned that he would hold it until
last.

Shortly after three o'clock I received a telephone call
from a private detective I knew, and he asked whether
we had a report of a death on West Fifty-seventh Street.
I glanced through the list, saw the Dot King name and
mentioned it. "What about it?" I asked. "Oh, nothing,
George," he replied in an offhand manner. 'Til be seeing
you around one of these days."

My suspicions were immediately aroused. I knew this
man normally handled work for important lawyers and
banks, and from the police report there should have been
nothing about this death to arouse any interest on their
part. His failure to explain why he had made the call
indicated that something was brewing. I was unable to
locate Dr. Cassassa but left word at the places he still
had to visit to go at once to the Dot King apartment.
Dr. Norris was at the morgue and I did not want to take

214 IT'S TIME To TELL

him away from his work and send him out on a possible
wild-goose chase, but still worried, I went to the King
apartment by taxicab.

An elevator operator took me to the fifth floor and
pointed to the rear apartment. The building was actually
two adjacent former private homes that had been con-
verted into apartments. A Negro maid admitted me. I
noticed two crumpled coats on the floor of the small
foyer. A uniformed patrolman was seated in a chair in
the living room talking to a middle-aged woman and a
younger man. The officer told me they were the mother
and a brother of the dead woman. The bedroom was
right off the living room and the door was open. The
police officer had stationed himself where he could see
the body since it was his duty to guard it until after an
examination by the medical examiner. I went to the
doorway of the bedroom and stood stock still with shock.

The body of a blond woman in her late twenties was
in a contorted position on the bed. Her head was partly
buried under a pillow and you could see a large wad of
cotton jammed under her nostrils. An empty bottle with
chloroform on the label lay between her legs. Her left
arm was twisted behind her back in a hammerlock hold.
The fingers were curved like claws. I wheeled to tell
the comfortably seated officer that it was a case of murder.
Just then Dr. Cassassa, who had received my message,
hurried in. He took one glance at the body and said,
"Let's call the Chief/'

It was small satisfaction to see the patrolman suddenly
go into action when he learned he had been sitting
placidly for hours amid such obvious signs of murder.
Much valuable time had been lost for the police investi*

The Singed Butterfly 215

gation, and rigor mortis already had set in, which made
the actual time of death more difficult to estimate.

While waiting for Dr. Norris and the police, I ques-
tioned those in the apartment. Close to the left leg of
the victim was a vest pocket comb in a leather case, the
type men carry. I asked the mother and the maid whether
the comb belonged to the victim, and both said it did
not. The worn edges of the leather container indicated
that it was habitually carried in a pocket, the obvious
inference being a man's pocket, since women carry their
combs in their purses. It could have dropped from the
murderer's pocket during his struggles with the woman,
since the condition of the bed sheets and her clawed
fingers showed that she had put up a fight for her life.

Later both the mother and the maid changed their
stories, one of the many changes made in this strange case.

I also questioned John Thomas, the Negro elevator
operator. He told me that at seven-thirty the previous
evening he had taken two men to the apartment and that
an hour later they had come down with Miss King and
left the building. He knew the men as Mr. Marshall and
Mr. Wilson, having heard Miss King call them that. All
three returned about midnight, and the elevator man
said they appeared to be "pretty jolly/' About half an
hour later Mr. Wilson came down alone.

I asked him when Mr. Marshall left, and he said he
still had not seen him when he went off duty at seven
o'clock that morning.

"Could he have come down without your having seen
him?" I asked. Thomas said that this could have been
possible. He explained that the two buildings had been
joined at the second floor by breaking halls through the

216 IT'S TIME To TELL

walls. Anybody could walk down to the second floor, cross
over to number 146 and exit through a door there. This
door was so arranged that it was an exit only. The only
entrance to the building was at number 144 at the
elevator.

The maid, Ella Bradford, who was called Billy, told
me that Dot King referred to Mr. Marshall as "the
millionaire/' She indicated that it was not his real name
but claimed she did not know what it really was. She
thought he lived in Boston. The name of the second man,
Mr. Wilson, also seemed to be an alias. He was supposed
to be Mr. Marshall's secretary.

Mrs. Catherine Keenan, the mother of Dot King, de-
scribed Mr. Marshall to me as a "fine gentleman" and
said he had been 'Very kind" to her daughter. She added
that he had given Dot many expensive presents of jewelry
and furs. These had disappeared from the apartment.

When I asked the maid about this, she said that before
I had arrived at the apartment, Mrs. Keenan had made
a trip to her own home, taking with her some of her
daughter's possessions. She then returned to the apart-
ment. Why the policeman on duty permitted this I do
not know to this day.

The maid added that Mr. Marshall had been a fre-
quent visitor and just a few days earlier had brought Dot
King "a beautiful present" upon his return from a trip
to the South. It was obvious that Dot King was being
kept by the mysterious Mr. Marshall whom Mrs. Keenan
described as being so "very kind" to her daughter.

Billy had been the one to discover the body. She had
reported for work at eleven o'clock that morning, her
customary time, noticed the coats on the floor and had

The Singed Butterfly 217

hurried to the bedroom. As soon as she saw her position
on the bed, she realized that her mistress was dead. She
touched her feet and they were cold. She also placed her
hand inside the bosom and said the body there was still
warm. The maid hurried out and notified a patrolman.
She also telephoned Mrs. Keenan.

From the maid's observation of the warmth in the
breasts, Dr. Norris was able to estimate that death prob-
ably occurred between seven and eight o'clock that
morning.

Dot King's real name was Anna Marie Keenan. She
was twenty-nine years old when murdered. She had been
married to Eugene Oppel, a chauffeur, when she was
eighteen, but they had separated a year or so later and
she had finally obtained an Enoch Arden divorce. She
was a beautiful girl, with blond wavy hair, blue eyes,
and an exquisite figure. She became a model in a dress-
making house at twenty-five dollars a week, soon began
entertaining visiting buyers, and became a familiar figure
along the gay spots of Broadway. She moved to the Great
Northern Hotel, gave up her job, assumed the Dot King
name, and became the mistress of various men. When
she met Mr, Marshall, he installed her in the West Fifty-
seventh Street apartment.

When Mrs. Keenan learned that her daughter had
been murdered, she promptly furnished police with the
name of a suspect. It was not the kind Mr. Marshall but
Albert Guimares, whom it seems the kind Mr. Marshall
was unwittingly supporting. Guimares, a swarthy man,
who said he was Puerto Rican, was Dot King's real lover,
and as is typical with many of these Broadway butterflies,
she was supporting him, showering him with expensive

su8 IT'S TIME To TELL

gifts and with much of the cash she was receiving from
Mr. Marshall. Mrs. Keenan said that he was brutal to
her daughter and frequently beat her.

The maid had an interesting tidbit to add. She said
that Dot King had had lunch with Mr. Marshall the prev-
ious afternoon and upon her return to the apartment had
telephoned Guimares and told him, "Daddy has been
more than generous. Do you know what he brought me,
Babe? A one-thousand-dollar Liberty bond, five hundred
dollars in cash, and the most marvelous jade and diamond
bracelet you ever saw, from Carder's." The maid then
heard them quarreling, and Dot King began crying
as she refused to agree with whatever Guimares was
demanding.

There was a sheet of paper on the floor near the bed.
It was a will and read, "I, Dorothy Keenan, believing that
something unforeseen might happen to me, hereby be-
queath all my earthly possessions to my mother." A sec-
ond duplicate will, this one bound in black paper and
the last page held down by a black silk ribbon sealed
with black wax, was on a small dressing table at the foot
of the bed. Still another exact copy of this will was
in a closed drawer of the same dressing table. None was
signed, and Mrs. Keenan said she knew nothing about
the documents. Dot had called to see her two days before
and told her nothing about making a will. The girl did
tell her mother that she was planning to buy her a bunga-
low in the country.

Mrs. Keenan said that Mr. Marshall had telephoned
the apartment at noon and she told him that Dot was
dead. He hung up immediately.

It was at this point that I left with Dr. Norris, and he

The Singed Butterfly 219

went to the morgue where he performed an autopsy.
Death was due to chloroform, and there were bruise
marks about the girl's mouth and slight abrasions inside
the lower lip where the killer had held the saturated
wad of cotton.

With the information of the elevator operator that
Mr. Marshall still was in the apartment at seven o'clock
in the morning when he went off duty, and the probable
time of the murder set at between 7:00 and 8:00 A.M., the
mysterious millionaire was the prime suspect, and police
began the task of trying to identify him.

There were no signs of forced entry into the apart-
ment and there were only two keys, the one carried by
Dot King and the other by the maid. Billy said neither
Guimares nor Mr. Marshall had a key to the apartment.

Guimares was picked up at his hotel and taken into
custody. He said that the previous night he had been
with friends until after two o'clock. He then had gone
to bed, waking up after 9:00 A.M. It was not much as an
alibi, but at the same time police could not disprove it.
Because a gun was found in his room, he was held for
violation of the Sullivan Law.

The search for the millionaire came to an end when
he appeared voluntarily at the district attorney's office.
He said that he had been at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel when
he telephoned Dot to ask her to lunch. After learning
from her mother that she was dead, he went to Wilson's
office and conferred with him. They decided to hire a
private detective to discover what had happened. It was
this man who had called me at the medical examiner's
office and aroused my suspicion.

When they learned from the late afternoon papers

220 IT'S TIME To TELL

that Dot King had been murdered, they consulted Neil-
son Olcott, a well-known lawyer, and on the following
morning went with him to the district attorney's office
where they were interviewed by Ferdinand Pecora. In-
spector Coughlin, head of the detective bureau, was
called in to take part in the conference.

Marshall said that he had been with Dot King until
two o'clock in the morning. He stated she had been in
good spirits when he left. He had gone down in the
elevator. He freely admitted his relationship with the
girl.

Pecora later issued a statement to reporters in which
he said that the man known as Mr. Marshall, who was
the last known person to have been with the murdered
woman, had been to his office, and in the presence of
Chief Inspector Coughlin had identified himself. Pecora's
statement added that Mr. Marshall had been so frank
and open with the authorities that they had eliminated
him from any connection with the case.

The reporters, who also had interviewed Thomas, the
elevator operator, and had received from him the same
story he told me, pointed out that Marshall's statement
that he had left by elevator at 2:00 A.M. did not agree with
statements made by Thomas. Pecora said he had con-
fronted Marshall with the elevator operator and that
Marshall had reminded Thomas that he had given him
a two-dollar tip when he took him down. The elevator
operator had been somewhat uncertain about the in-
cident.

The reporters asked for the identity of Mr. Marshall
and were told by Pecora that he would not reveal the
man's name, or that of Mr. Wilson, because he did not

The Singed Butterfly

wailt to embarrass them and it would only hurt Mr.
Marshall's family.

The newsmen were furious. Whether right or wrong,
they felt they were witnessing one brand of justice for
the rich and another for the poor. Guimares' lawyer
helped add fuel to the feeling when he issued his own
statement to the newspapermen in which he said, "They
protect Marshall, who, according to his own admission,
could easily have murdered Dot King, yet they hold
my client in ten thousand dollars' bail on a phony charge
and don't dare even insinuate that he killed Dot King."

The result was inevitable. Within twenty-four hours
the public was less concerned about who had killed the
butterfly girl than it was in getting the answer to the
intriguing question, "Who is Mr. Marshall?"

Although I admit I had a normal curiosity and won-
dered myself about the identity of Mr. Marshall, this
was not my reason for going to Dr. Norris and urging
him to conduct his own inquiry into the case, as he had
the authority to do under the law. The medical exam-
iner's office is a separate agency that is not under the
control of the police or the district attorney, and I felt
that under the circumstances our office should hold a
public inquiry into the murder of Dot King. Since Dr.
Norris always had refused to hold any inquests, he told
me it was up to the police and the district attorney to
solve the case.

Information was given to reporters indicating that Dot
King might have been killed because she was resisting
someone who wanted to blackmail Mr. Marshall. This
would account for the strangely worded unsigned will.
The maid was quoted as having overheard some man tell

222 IT'S TIME To TELL

Dot King, "If you don't kick in, someday, by God, I'll
toss you. We can make a real killing with this prize sap.
All we need is a couple of them letters, and, by God,
you'd better come across/'

Just the day before she died Dot King was supposed
to have told her masseuse, "I'll never stand for black-
mailing my sugar daddy."

Police said that Mr. Marshall had written letters to
Dot King but they had found only one in the apartment.
It read: "Darling Dottier Only two more days before I
will be in your arms. I want to see you, oh, so much, and
kiss your pretty pink toes."

Another man suddenly entered the case. He was
Draper M. Daugherty, son of Harry M. Daugherty, the
United States Attorney General in President Harding's
cabinet. Daugherty told reporters that he had been one
of the men in Dot King's life and that Francis Keenan,
one of Dot's brothers, was trying to blackmail him.

"I was with Dot one night," he said, "and she intro-
duced me to her brother. Half-kidding, I promised to
get him a job with the United States Secret Service, and
now he says that if I don't make good he'll expose my
connection with his sister."

A short time later Daugherty 's wife and his uncle, a
brother of the Attorney General, had him committed
to a sanitarium in Connecticut as a "dipsomanic and
incorrigible alcohol addict." That swift action removed
him from the case.

Reporters were told a trifle too much when it was
mentioned that Mr, Marshall had telephoned Dot King
from the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on the day her body had
been found. One enterprising newsman, by methods he

The Singed Butterfly 223

refused to reveal later to his crestfallen rivals, managed
to obtain a list of all the telephone calls made from the
switchboard in the hotel that day. Thumbing through
the many slips, he found one that matched Dot King's
telephone number. The slip gave the name of the man
to whom the call had been charged. He immediately took
a train to Philadelphia and appeared at the imposing
home of J. Kearsley Mitchell, a Princeton alumnus, a
clubman of Philadelphia, Boston, New York, Newport
and Palm Beach. Mitchell, a man in his fifties, was mar-
ried to Frances B. Stotesbury, the daughter of Edward
B. Stotesbury, Philadelphia bank partner of J. P. Morgan.
He was president of the Philadelphia Rubber Works
Company and a director of many large corporations.

The reporter informed Mitchell that he had traced
him through his telephone call to Dot King and bluntly
told him he was going to publish his information.
Mitchell then admitted that he was the mysterious Mr,
Marshall. Mr. Wilson, his so-called secretary, was really
John J. Jackson, a well-known New York lawyer who
served both as his private and his business counsel.

When the story broke exclusively in this reporter's
paper, Pecora then admitted to other reporters that
Mitchell was the man he had been trying to save from
embarrassment.

With Mitchell's name out in the open, witnesses again
were questioned. Thomas now positively remembered
that Mitchell had given him a two-dollar tip and that he
had taken him down at two o'clock in the morning. I do
not know how many users of that elevator had been in
the habit of tipping the operator. I do know that it is not

I T ' S TIME To TELL

too ordinary a custom and I wonder why Thomas could
not remember it the same day it was given.

Mrs* Keenan and Billy, the maid, now identified the
comb found oh the bed as belonging to Dot King. There
were short hairs, typical of combings from a man's head,
caught in the teeth.

Police began to lean to the theory that Dot King
might have been killed by a burglar. I know that the
captain in charge of the homicide squad did advance this
theory in a book he wrote after he retired from the force.
The maid said that a patent-leather suitcase was missing
along with all of Dot's jewelry, valued at fifteen thousand
dollars, the five hundred dollars in cash she had received
the previous afternoon from Mitchell, fine dresses and
lingerie, plus a light summer ermine coat and a fur
cape. The two coats found on the foyer floor, according
to this theory, were discarded because they would not
fit into the crammed suitcase.

There was no ready explanation of how the thieves
had gained admittance, since there were only two keys
to the apartment, and no doors or windows showed any
signs of being forced.

Police did not mention to reporters in discussing the
possibility of a burglary the story told me by the maid
that Mrs. Keenan had left the apartment with some of
her daughter's things. The officer who did not notice the
signs of murder evidently did not inspect or notice what
was being taken out.

Mitchell did supply cynical reporters with one amusing
moment. The knowledgeable head of a large corporation
was shocked and surprised to learn that Dot King was
seeing other men between his visits even though he was

The Singed Butterfly

keeping her in an apartment. He had been lavish with
her. In their year together he had given her more than
ten thousand dollars in cash, paid all her bills, and given
her all her jewelry, furs and frocks. At one point, hoping
to improve her speech, he had hired an English tutor,
but Dot King was no Liza Doolittle and after several
lessons she chased the man out of her apartment.

Guimares profited considerably from Dot's association
with Mitchell. She gave him a thirteen-hundred-dollar
platinum watch, a seven-hundred-dollar fur overcoat,
thirty-five dollar Oriental silk pajamas, and with the cash
he received from her, he opened a brokerage office. When
he was arrested, he was wearing diamond cuff links which
Mitchell had given to Dot and which she had handed
over to him.

Not long after, Pecora stated that if no arrest was made
for the murder he would be forced to return to the
routine of his office. No arrest was made, and the investi-
gation petered out.

Dot's mother inherited what the girl left and dis-
appeared soon after the services of a former assistant
district attorney had been retained. None of the missing
jewels, furs or clothing was ever found in any pawnshop.

The Mitchells closed their home and sailed for an
extended visit abroad. Guimares was released, arrested
for using the mails to defraud and was sent to the federal
prison in Atlanta.

I do believe that under the old system of the coroner's
court and inquest, the Dot King murder might have
been solved. At least there would have been no with-
holding of the names of witnesses, and all those involved
would have received a subpoena and been forced to tell

226 IT'S TIME To TELL

their stories under oath, making later changes more diffi-
cult to explain.

There are many unanswered questions in the case.
I would like the answer to three: Who drew up the three
unsigned wills and where were they drawn and typed?
What became of the missing jewelry and furs? Who
owned the pocket comb?

I suppose it is too late for any answers now and it
would make little difference to the once-gay girl who
rests tinder a modest marker in a cemetery.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Politics a la Carte

UNLIKE DR. CHARLES

Morris, who throughout his regime as chief medical ex-
aminer feared and distrusted politicians, I did not think
all of them were evil and corrupt men. In fact, my interest
in politics that began while I was a youth never slackened
during the thirty-six years I was with the office, and I
took an active part in all the campaigns through the
Latin-American political organization I had founded.
The ebb and flow of politics in this greatest city in the
world was a constant source of fascination for me.

I was not in politics for my personal benefit, for what
I could get out of it. On many occasions important politi-
cal leaders told me to come to their office and offered
me well-paying jobs within the city administration, but
I was happy in my work and did not want to leave.

Even during my early years in office, when I still

327

2i>8 IT'S TIME To TELL

thought of my job as a temporary one, I resisted tempt-
ing offers to work elsewhere for more money.

In 1899, when Henry Flagler was building a railroad
through what was then the tropical jungle of Florida, he
was faced with a serious shortage in help. He spoke to
Thomas F. Crimmins, a prominent contractor, who sug-
gested that Flagler get in touch with me. Flagler sent me
a telegram at the coroner's office saying that he needed
five hundred laborers at once and asked that I get in touch
with him at his office at 6 Broadway. I knew nothing of
his conversation with Crimmins, and Flagler's name
meant nothing to me, so I pushed the telegram aside.

That night I happened to meet Crimmins, and he
asked me if I had seen Flagler. He was surprised when I
expressed my lack of knowledge of the man.

"Why, don't you know that he is John D. Rockefeller's
partner in Standard Oil?" he asked, "He's building up
the east coast of Florida and needs laborers. I thought
you could round up some men for him/'

Through my activities with minority groups I was well
known among Italians, and since there were many im-
migrants arriving almost daily and they needed work, I
realized this represented a good opportunity to help these
people. The Italian banks on Mulberry and Elizabeth
Streets served as a focal center. They exchanged American
money for Italians returning to their native land, sent
money abroad for men who had relatives in Italy, wrote
letters for those who were illiterate, and even helped get
them employment. I soon received pledges from these
bankers of a sufficient number of men to meet the demand
and went to see Flagler.

After all arrangements had been completed, Flagler

Politics a la Carte 229

said to me, " Young man, I want you to cast your lot with
us in Florida. We need a man who can deliver in our
organization/' Despite his urgings, I thanked him and
left.

Not long after this, Isaac Guggenheim of the mining
dynasty offered me double my salary to work for him,
but I found the drama, the pathos, even the comedy of
the coroner's office so absorbing and ever-changing that
I would not leave.

Today, as I write this, I am nearing my one hundredth
birthday. During the winter months I live in West Palm
Beach, not far from the railroad and the mansion Flagler
had built. In the summer I live on Long Island, where
the Guggenheims live in many estates. I still wonder
whether I was wise or foolish in turning down those
legitimate offers.

I was able to use my political connections on two
occasions, both times for the benefit of the medical
examiner's office and Dr. Norris.

Toward the close of his first year in office, Dr. Norris
had to appear before Mayor Hylan and the board of
estimate to submit his budget for 1919. He asked for
several additional stenographers and technicians and for
a department automobile. Because we lacked funds, Dr.
Norris was paying for the stenographer at the morgue
out of his own pocket, and the office was using his private
car for official calls to rush staff members to the scene
of important cases.

One of the important members of Hylan's administra-
tion at that time was a former coroner who had lost his
post when the office was abolished. The mayor knew
little about the medical examiner's office and he turned

230 IT'S TIME To TELL

to this former coroner, who had been a plumber, for
advice and guidance. I might add that this ex-plumber
probably knew even less than the mayor did about the
office because he never had more than a hazy idea of
what the coroner's office was about when he served in it.
Dr. Norris, who always spoke out his mind, and had
a dislike for politicians anyway, listened to several re-
marks made by the former coroner and disrupted the
budget hearing by telling this man he was totally ignorant
and that he would not answer any more questions. Mayor
Hylan then demanded that Dr. Norris apologize to this
man and to the board.

The Chief looked at both of them, picked up his hat
and walked out of the room.

When the appropriations were announced, our office
was denied any of the funds requested. Without saying
a word to any of us, Dr. Norris wrote out his resignation
and sent it over to City Hall. I learned about it from an
agitated clerk in the mayor's office. I knew the loss of
Dr. Norris would be a tragic one to the city, since he
already was beginning to achieve excellent results. I
decided to act on my own. I went to see one of the city
commissioners, who was an important political leader,
and explained the situation to him. He asked just one
question: "Are those funds necessary?" I told him they
were needed for the proper tunctioning of the office. He
said he would go right in and speak to the mayor. When
he returned he told me that Hylan would like to talk
to Dr. Norris, and I set up an appointment for the fol-
lowing day. I then went to Dr. Norris and told him
about it.

Dr. Norris kept this appointment and was smiling

Politics a la Carte 2 3 1

broadly when he returned. The mayor had refused to
accept his resignation, told him he had heard he was
doing good work and assured him that the additional
help he wanted would be supplied.

The board did vote most of the funds at its next meet-
ing. The money for the car had to be voted for by the
board of aldermen. Our old friend, the ex-plumber, ex-
coroner, was a member of this board. He spoke against
the proposal and convinced his fellow aldermen to vote
it down. Dr. Norris didn't care particularly; he was
accustomed to paying for it himself anyway. But I knew
it wasn't fair to our office; if anything happened to Dr.
Norris, or to his car, we would be stranded when time
could be very important in an investigation.

Once again I decided to intervene. This time I went
to see C. F. Murphy, the head of Tammany Hall. He was
surprised to learn that Dr. Norris was without an official
car and asked who had blocked it. I told him. He said that
Dr. Norris was too valuable a man for the city to lose.
Several days later I received word from him to send our
request for a car to the next meeting of the aldermen
and it would be passed, I did and it was passed. Every-
body, including the former coroner, voted for it; he had
his orders.

Dr. Norris found it difficult to understand why a politi-
cal leader had extended himself when it was no secret
that no politician could hope for favors from him. I
told him there were two kinds of political bosses, those
interested in good government and those concerned only
with lining their own pockets. I met examples of both
kinds in my years in New York City politics.

It seems to me that politics today is a grim and joyless

IT'S TIME To TELL

business compared to those days in the i88o's when I
cast my first vote. Perhaps it is just nostalgia for days that
are gone forever, but the television screen is a poor substi-
tute for the excitement of parades and bands and the
speakers who appealed to our emotions as well as our
intellects. We had fun out of our political battles. When
we predicted the ruin of the nation if some rascal wasn't
turned out, we did it with tongue in cheek. We knew our
country was sturdy enough to survive even us.

I mentioned earlier how I had founded the Franco-
American Democratic Club and later changed it to the
Latin-American club to include Italian and Spanish vot-
ers. While we were largely members of the Democratic
party, we had no hesitation in changing to Republican
when we liked the candidate better. When Theodore
Roosevelt ran for President, we backed him and became
the Latin-American League. Some years after he had left
the White House and had made his famous African hunt-
ing trip, I was appointed by Mayor Gaynor to a reception
committee, all members of which were distinguished with
the exception of me, to welcome him back to this country.

The reception committee members boarded the U. S.
revenue cutter, Androscoggin, at 7:00 A.M. and went down
the harbor to Quarantine where we were to meet the
former President. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was chair-
man of the committee, greeted Mr. Roosevelt as he
stepped on board our cutter. Teddy seemed to know a
great deal about every member of the committee. He
strode along shaking hands with each member and added
a personal remark. When he reached me he surprised
me by asking, "LeBrun, how's the Latin-American
League?" I told him we still were for him. When the

Politics a la Carte 233

cutter landed he was driven up Broadway in one of the
first ticker-tape parades.

In 1896 when the Democrats nominated William Jen-
nings Bryan, our organization was opposed to his silver
policy and we backed McKinley. As an example of how
politics operated then, there were two Italian newspapers
in New York at that time, the largest being // Progresso.
It was the first Italian newspaper in this country and
was owned by Carlo Barsotti. Barsotti had received an
offer of three thousand dollars from the Democratic party
if he would back their candidates. He told me he was
willing to have his paper support the opposition but he
wanted seven thousand dollars and asked me to submit
his offer to the Republican National Committee. I did
and the committee turned it down in favor of an Italian
daily published in Chicago. Such a practice was not con-
sidered unusual at all at the time and caused no lifted
eyebrows. It was at Barsotti's home where I attended a
luncheon given for Caruso. It was the first time I met the
great singer. The gathering was small, and he had many
humorous stories to tell of feuds between noted opera
stars.

For the McKinley campaign we had changed our name
to the Latin-American Reform Union. Two years later,
during the municipal campaign, the one in which Zucca
was nominated for coroner, we were back under the
Democratic banner and were known as the Latin-Amer-
ican Democratic League.

It was after my entrance into the coroner's office that
I became acquainted with most of the Tammany district
leaders. They usually came calling to seek some favor
for one of their constituents in trouble.

234 IT'S TIME To TELL

Tom Foley, one of the best known of these leaders,
owned a saloon opposite the old Criminal Courts Build-
ing that was a favorite meeting place for judges and
lawyers as well as for city officials and politicians.

Early in 1902, during a gambler's quarrel, a man was
shot in a cafe located in the Rossmore Hotel on the west
side of Broadway at Forty-second Street. It was a place
with an unsavory reputation frequented by sporting
men and gamblers. The man who was shot was a notorious
confidence man and cardsharp. His killer was a gambler.

The man was arrested and lodged in the Tombs to
await the inquest. Coroner Scholer, a Republican, had
charge of the case, and I was secretary to Scholer. Tom
Foley came to see me and said the man who did the
shooting had never been in trouble and that he wanted
to help him. Although he did not request it, I knew he
wanted to have the man admitted to bail. Since Scholer
was of the opposition party, he did not want to go to him
directly.

At the inquest several witnesses testified that they saw
the victim make an attempt to pull something from his
pocket before he was shot. The jury found that the
shooting was in self-defense, and this verdict enabled the
coroner, if he so desired, to admit the accused to bail
to await the action of the grand jury. I then went to
Scholer, told him of Foley's interest, and he agreed to
admit the man to bail. Foley supplied the security.

Later District Attorney Jerome dismissed the indict-
ment. Jerome, who was no friend of Tammany Hall, said
of Foley, "His word is as good as his bond to me. He has
never deceived me. He does much to get his people to
go straight; this is my estimate of a man high in the

Politics a la Carte 235

councils of Tammany." There were never any political
scandals attached to Foley and he was known for his many
charitable acts. It did not matter to him whether a
hungry or jobless man was a voter or how he registered.
If he needed help, he got it.

And to Foley must go the credit for seeing the political
possibilities of a young man named Alfred E. Smith and
for starting him on his career.

I first met Al Smith in 1903, the same year he was
nominated for the assembly, and at Foley's request worked
for his election among the Italians in his district. During
his first two years in Albany, Smith was disappointed. He
felt submerged and that he never would be able to make
his mark in that spot. His salary was only $125 a month
and he had to pay his living expenses out of that, as
well as maintain his family on Oliver Street.

He went to Foley and asked for a better paying job,
but the political leader turned him down. "I gave you
the nomination to represent the district so you could
make a name for yourself. You can't do that in a couple
of sessions."

Smith went back to Albany, and the talent Foley had
recognized began to emerge. He was to become majority
leader of the assembly, speaker, four times governor of
the state, and finally his party's candidate for President.

In 1915, after serving all that time in the assembly
on the meager salary, Smith pleaded for an opportunity
to be able to support his family and he was given the
nomination for sheriff, which was worth fifty thousand
or more a year to the incumbent. He served for two
years and was the last fee sheriff; the office was placed
on a straight salary after that. Al Smith then became

236 IT'S TIME To TELL

president of the board of aldermen on the same ticket
with Hylan. He was not in sympathy with the policies
of the mayor.

I was present when the boom to run him for governor
began. He had asked me to come to see him. A clerk in
our office was slated to be released, and Al Smith asked if
I could keep him on for several weeks until he could find
a new job for him. The budget funds were there and I
agreed. When I first entered his office he was talking on
the telephone and I heard him say, "Ah, now, cut out
that governor stuff."

After he hung up I remarked that somebody evidently
wanted him for the chief executive of the state.

"Yes/' replied Al, "some of my old friends want me to
get the nomination. I was just talking to an upstate
leader, but I told him that there wasn't a chance, that
I couldn't win even if I got the nomination/'

Smith had underestimated his own popularity. He not
only received the nomination but won the election. The
leaders of Tammany Hall deliberately remained in the
background during the campaign so that they could not
be an issue. For this election I also organized the Allied
Democratic League. One of the active workers for Smith
was Mrs. Belle Moskowitz, and he was so impressed with
her ability that after his election he induced her to come
to Albany, where she served as his valuable assistant for
many years. It was Mrs. Moskowitz who introduced Smith
to Robert Moses, whom he appointed State Park Com-
missioner. Smith's strong support of Moses led to the
eventual development of the world-famous Jones Beach
and Long Island's beautiful parkway system.

When Al Smith was nominated for the Presidency in

Politics a la Carte

1928, our organization, which finally settled into its per-
manent name of the Latin-American Democratic League,
supported him. I heard that Henry Morgenthau was
going to stump for Governor Smith and attack the Kellog-
Briand multilateral treaties. I wrote to John R. Rascob,
chairman of the National Democratic Committee, and
protested that such an attack would be detrimental to
Smith, particularly among the foreign groups, who be-
lieved the treaties were at least an effort for world peace.
I was told that the matter would be considered and Mr.
Morgenthau did not attack the treaties in any speeches
during the campaign. I think our country was the loser
when Smith was not elected; he would have made a great
President.

A different kind of political leader was George Wash-
ington Plunkett, who controlled a district centered at
Eighth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. When I met him he
had become a wealthy man, had been a contractor and
had served in the state senate. He was pleasant-speaking,
wore a beard and mustache and always carried a cane. He
did not drink liquor, but he was a cigar smoker. Five days
a week he could be found sitting on one of the bootblack
stands in the courthouse, and he liked to talk about his
political philosophy. This is an actual interview he gave.

I set out, when I cast my first vote, to win fame and money in
New York politics. Did I offer my services to the district leader
as a stump speaker? Not much. The woods are full of such
speakers. Bid I get up a book on municipal government and show
it to the leader? I wasn't such a fool. What I did was to get some
marketable goods before going to the leader. I had a cousin, a
young man, who didn't take any particular interest in politics. I
went to him and said, "Tommy, I'm going to be a politician,

238 IT'S TIME To TELL

and I want to get a following. Can I count on you?*' He said,
"Sure, George." That's how I started in business. I got a market-
able commodity one vote. Then I went to the district leader
and told him I could command two votes on election day,
Tommy's and my own. He smiled on me and told me to go
ahead. If I had offered him a speech or a book full of learning,
he would have said, 'Oh, forget it/ That was the beginning in a
small way, wasn't it? But that is the only way to become a real
lasting statesman.

I soon branched out. Two young men in the flat next to mine
were school friends. I went to them, just as I went to Tommy,
and they agreed to stand by me. Then I had a following of three
votes and I began to get a bit chesty. Whenever I dropped into
district headquarters, everybody shook hands with me, and the
leader one day honored me by lighting a match for my cigar.
And so it went like a snowball rolling downhill. I worked the
flat house that I lived in from the basement to the top floor, and
I got about a dozen men to follow me. Before long I had sixty
men back of me and formed the George Washington Plunkett
Association.

What did the district leader say when I called at headquarters?
He came after me and said, "George, what do you want? If you
don't see what you want, ask for it. Wouldn't you like to have a
job in the departments for your friends?" I said, "I'll think it
over. I haven't decided yet what the George Washington Plunkett
Association will do in the next campaign." You ought to have
seen how I was courted and petted then by the leaders of the
rival organizations. I had marketable goods and there were bids
for them from all sides, and I was a rising man in politics. As
time went on, and my association grew, I thought I would like
to go to the assembly. I just had to hint at what I wanted. After-
wards, I went to the board of aldermen, then to state senate,
then became leader of the district, and so on up, till I became
statesman.

This self-styled statesman had one pet hate civil
service.

Politics a la Carte 239

It would be all a mess if every man who wanted a job would
have to run up against a civil service examination. I know more
than one young man in past years who worked for the ticket and
was just overflowing with patriotism, but when he was knocked by
the civil service humbug he got to hate this country and became
an anarchist.

My first meeting with William Randolph Hearst took
place in 1905 when he ran for mayor of New York on
an independent ticket against George B. McClellan. I
met Max Ihmsen, one of Hearst's star reporters, in the
lobby of the Hoffman House, and he urged me to have
the Latin-American Democratic League support the
publisher. I told him we had committed our support to
McClellan. Even so, he urged me to come upstairs where
Hearst had his campaign headquarters to meet him. The
publisher was pleasant during our brief chat. McClellan
won by a small plurality. Hearst insisted there had been
frauds and asked for a recount. It was granted, and
McClellan was declared elected by a scant 3476 votes.
The publisher probably was right in saying that the
election had been stolen from him.

McClellan blamed Tammany for his narrow victory,
claiming the organization had not worked for him, and
broke with Murphy, the Tammany boss. This was a
mistake. The leaders had done their best, but the East
Side was solidly for the publisher, and his picture was
displayed in the windows of almost every tenement. If
McClellan had not broken with Murphy, he probably
would have been the next gubernatorial candidate, a
post that has led to the White House.

In the vagaries of politics, Murphy turned about-face
and obtained the nomination of Hearst for governor, and

24 I T ' S TIME To TELL

I met the publisher for a second time. Our League sup-
ported him in this race, but he was defeated by Charles
E. Hughes.

Despite the various political campaigns, whether I was
for Hearst or against him, his papers always supported
my campaigns to help save lives and in that way certainly
fulfilled an important public function.

I helped give Grover Whalen his start in politics. I had
known his father, Michael, during the first years I was in
the coroner's office. He had two sons, Stevenson and
Grover. I believe Grover was named after Grover Cleve-
land, the father having held a position in the United
States Custom House under Cleveland's administration.

It was during the mayoralty campaign of 1913, with
Judge McCall running against John P. Mitchell, that
Stevenson and Grover invited me to lunch. I was at the
McCall headquarters in charge of the bureau of voters
of foreign birth and descent. The brothers told me they
would like to take part in the campaign, and I gave their
names to the committee at headquarters. Grover Whalen
evidently liked his taste of politics, even though McCall
lost, and I next met him when he was active in Hylan's
campaign for mayor. Grover acted as Hylan's secretary
and accompanied him to all meetings he had to attend.

There was little outstanding about the Hylan admin-
istration. It was conducted more honestly than had been
expected. He had two obsessions. One was the retention
of the five-cent subway fare, and the other was his con-
stant bombardment of department heads on the neces-
sity for economy. I had written to him asking for a salary
increase for an elderly clerk in his sixties who both needed
and deserved a raise. In reply I got this letter from
Mayor Hylan:

Politics a la Carte 241

"This clerk, instead of trying to get his salary increased,
he should first have the interest of the city in his mind.
If he does, who knows, but some day, he may become
great and become Mayor of the City?"

Grover Whalen served for a time as official secretary
to Mayor Hylan. World War I had ended in the first
year of his administration, soldiers were returning, and
many distinguished visitors were arriving in the city.
The mayor named a group of prominent citizens, includ-
ing city officials, to serve as a reception committee.

Grover had inherited his father's contracting business
which carted ashes and debris away from many Broadway
buildings. One of these was the John Wanamaker store,
and Grover suggested to Hylan that Rodman Wanamaker
be named chairman of the committee. After that Grover
accompanied Rodman Wanamaker whenever any dis-
tinguished guest arrived, and in time he took on the post
and became the most celebrated greeter of celebrities.

While I was president of the League, a young man
named Carmine DeSapio joined the organization. He
was the protege of Michael A. Scudi, who was secretary
of our club.

One day Scudi brought DeSapio to my office and said
the young man was seeking the position of secretary to
one of the city court judges and they asked my help in
obtaining the endorsement of John F. Curry, the Tam-
many Hall leader. I pointed out that all such positions
had to have the endorsement of the leader of the district
in which the applicant lived, that Curry would not go
over a district leader's head. In this case it was Dan Finn,
and DeSapio did not have his endorsement.

Not long after this visit, DeSapio did obtain the ap-
pointment. Scudi told me that DeSapio himself had

IT'S TIME To TELL

maneuvered to get one of the judges to appoint him as
secretary. He later ran for leader of his district against
Dan Finn and defeated him. The district had many
Italian-Americans living in it.

When Mayor O'Dwyer ran for his second term, the late
Generoso Pope was treasurer of his campaign committee
and many other Italians were actively supporting the
campaign. The real leadership of Tammany Hall at that
time was vacant and was being filled on a temporary
basis by Hugo Rogers, who was borough president of
Manhattan. Pope and the others prevailed on O'Dwyer
to name one of the Italian district leaders as the head of
the Democratic organization.

Two of these men were discussed for leadership. They
were former Judge Francis X. Mancuso and Carmine
DeSapio. Mancuso was eliminated, and DeSapio, leader
of the first district, was elected.

Some sixty years after I had founded the Latin-Amer-
ican organization and had demanded a place on the ticket
for the first Italian to be elected to a city office in New
York, a former member of the organization had become
the leader of Tammany Hall. The wheel of politics had
taken its full turn.

In the never-ending kaleidoscope that is politics in
New York, DeSapio is now out of office and a new cycle
will begin. With the granddaughter of a former member
in the White House, perhaps a man of French descent
will yet become the Democratic leader in New York.

When I retired from the medical examiner's office,
I began to divide my time between Florida and Long
Island I no longer lived in New York City and ceased
my active association with politics.

Politics a la Carte 243

My years of experience brought home several lessons
to me. Despite the evil connotation the words "political
boss/' have in most people's minds, a political boss is
necessary in our modern society to keep the actual wheels
of government moving. A political boss does not have to
be evil. There have been many public-minded men who
served as political bosses and they were interested in
good, clean and honest government. It takes only a few
like Boss Tweed to bring an organization into such
disrepute that it never really recovers and is always
subject to attack and suspicion.

A corrupt political boss or a corrupt political machine,
particularly at the local level, is due solely to the apathy
and the indifference of the public, the voters themselves.
Political bosses like the power the position gives them.
They don't want to lose that power and they will give the
voters what they want to stay in power. If the voters
demand good government, they will get it.

It also has become fashionable over the years for most
young men to avoid becoming involved in politics. If you
hand over by default the fundamental operations of poli-
tics to those who are only seeking something for them-
selves, you cannot expect political machines to be
concerned about the public. Politics needs a constant in-
fusion of new blood, new ideas and enthusiasm. It has
produced some of the great leaders of our country* It
should continue to do so.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Personal

WHEN A MAN REACHES

the age of one hundred years, interest is expressed in his
longevity. I can only be a disappointment to the faddists
and theorists.

To teetotalers, I must remind them that I am of French
descent and that I learned at an early age the delights of
a good glass of wine. It is only within the last few years
that I no longer have a daily drink but reserve it for im-
portant occasions. My grandchildren think there are
too many important occasions.

I have no sympathy with Prohibition. Many may recall
those days as the era of gangsters or of flappers. I was in
the medical examiner's office then and I still recall with
horror the thousands of lives lost because of poisoned
alcohol masquerading as just-oflE-the-boat liquor.

For those who decry the evils of nicotine, I offer my
regrets that my life cannot serve as an example. My first

Personal

job at the age of eighteen was selling cigars. I smoked
them then. I still do now.

Scientists have advanced the theory that longevity is
due to heredity, and many people feel themselves doomed
to an early death because one or both of their parents
died young. For these people I can offer good cheer, not
for the scientists. My mother died while still in her
twenties, and my father was in his early forties when he
died, as had his father before him. My oldest daughter
was in her seventies when she developed high-blood
pressure and was told by her doctor to cut down on her
activities. She loved dancing and did not consider life
worth while without it. She died as she may have wanted
to go, while dancing.

If there is any secret to longevity, perhaps it is in hav-
ing an interest in others. Even today I still take an in-
terest in the organizations I helped found to save human
lives. People are interesting and fascinating. By being
interested in them, I do not have time to brood about
myself, so I rarely become ill. When I do, I feel I am
missing too many things and so am impatient to get well.

I take daily walks, enjoy automobile rides, and read
the newspapers every day. I type my own letters. I
noticed because of the heavy correspondence involved
in writing this book that typing was not as easy as it once
was. I shouldn't complain. I have had that typewriter
for many years and I suppose it is getting old.

Index

Abner, Frank, 95, 96, 98, 99, 100
Acrod, Benjamin, 14, 15
Adams, Al, 186, 187, 188
Adams, Katherine, poisoning

of, 23-24, 26, 29-32, 34
Albermarle Cafe, 58, 61
Alien Contract Labor Laws, 62
Allied Democratic League, 236
Allied Real Estate Association,

82

Ambulance-chasing, 155
American Bar Association, 113
American Opera Company, 57
Androscoggin, 232
Ansonia Hotel, 60, 186
Automobile accidents* see Mo-
tor accidents
Autopsies, performed by Nor-

ris, 196-99, 201, 202
Ax murder, ten-year-old girl
witness to, 17-19

Babbitt Soap Company, 147,

148
Barnet, Henry C., 28, 30, 31, 32,

33> 34> 35

Barney, Charles T., death of,
84-88

Barney, Mrs. Charles T., 85, 86,
87

Barrymore, Maurice, 58, 59

Baxsotti, Carlo, 233

Baruch, Simon, 107

Bauman, Gustave, 159, 160, 161

Becker, Charles, 162, 163, 165,
166, 167, 168, 170; "Dying
Statement" by, 176-77; indict-
ment of, 169; trial of, 170-75

Belasco, David, 34

Bial, Rudolph, 50

Biltmore Hotel, 159, 161

Bischoff, Supreme Court Jus-
tice, 82

247

248

Black Hand, see Mafia
Blake, Joseph, 84, 85
Bouvier, John V., 64
Bowery, 50, 143
Bradford, Ella ("Billy"), 216,

224
Breach-of-promise suits,

brought by Hummel, 157
"Bridge of Sighs," 15
Bryan, William Jennings, 64,

Buses, streetcars replaced by,
116-18

Carey, Arthur, 200, 202
Carnegie, Andrew, 57, 58
Caruso, Enrico, 233
Carvalho, D. N., 32
Cassassa, Dr., 213, 214
Cermak, Mayor, 112
Chadwick, Charles, 150, 151
Chesebrough, Blanche, 26, 28,

30, 3 1 - 33* 35* 97
Chessman, Caryl, 89
Chinatown, gun fights in, 139-

140; missionary work in, 140,

143; Webber's opium den in,

167

Chinatown Gertie, 143
Chong Sing, 141, 142, 143
Chu Gain, 141, 142
Ciroficci, Frank, 169
Cleveland, Grover, 60, 61, 240
Clews, Henry, 1 10
Coll, Vincent, 196
Cornish, Harry S., 23, 24, 26,

27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 35,

36

INDEX

Coroner(s), arrests by, 15; and
bribes, 144-51, 191; China-
town gun fight investigations
t>Y> 139-4; duties of, 15-16;
history of office of, 14-15; in-
quest by, see Inquest, coro-
ner's; and lawyers, predatory,
1 54-55* * 57-59; in Mafia cases,
130-31, 132; political control
of, 145; remuneration for, 14;
replaced by medical exam-
iner, 192-93; and suicides, 127
Corrigan, Jim, 43
Coughlin, Inspector, 220
Criminal Courts Building, 15,

154

Crimmins, Thomas F., 228
Croker, Richard, 61
Curry, John F,, 241

Daugherty, Draper M., 222
Delafield, Lewis, 67, 68
Delmonico's, 58
DeSapio, Carmine, 241, 242
Dewey, Thomas E., 166
De Wolfe, Stephen, 60
DiPriema, Giuseppe, 136, 138
Ditmars, Raymond, 179, 180
Dix, Governor, 43
Dixon, George A., 85, 87
Dodge, William Earl, 208
Donlin, Dr., 37, 38, 40, 41, 42
Dooley, Coroner, 67, 68

East River, bodies of floaters in,
14; subway tunnels built
under, 20-2 1

Index

Elevator accidents, in build-
ings, 80, 81, 85, 83

Elman, Mischa, 60

Elwell, Joseph B., unsolved
murder of, 199-207

Federation of Women's Clubs,

115

Feinberg, Coroner, 160
Ferrari, Giovanni, 41, 42
Figueroa, Octavio, 204
Finn, Dan, 241, 242
Firearms, availability in New

York before Sullivan Law,

104-06, 108-09; availability in

states without restrictive

laws, 112
Fiske, Jim, 58
Fitch, Clyde, 58
Flagler, Henry, 228, 229
Foley, Tom, 234, 235
Ford, Sim, 125
Foster, Warren W., 99, 1 1 1
Franco-American Democratic

Club, 61, 232
Franklyn, C. G., 56
French Ball, at old Madison

Square Garden, 50

Gallagher, Charles, 164
Gardiner, Asa Bird, 33, 44, 67
Gaynor, William J., 232
Gertie, Chinatown, 143
Gettler, Alexander O., 195
Godowsky, Leopold, 59, 60
Goff, John, 170

Goldsborough, Fitzhugh Coyle,
103, 104

249

Goldy, Coroner, 151-54
Gonzales, Thomas A., 210
Goodwin, Nat, 58
Grand Union Hotel, suicides

in, 125

Green, Hetty, 52-55
Grier, Bishop, 107
Guadaloupe, 48, 49
Guggenheim, Isaac, 229
Guimares, Albert, 217, 218, 219,

221, 225
Guns, see Firearms

Hall, Murray, 17

Harburger, Julius, 85, 86, 87,

182-85, 189-90; and Al

Adams death, 186-88; Hertha

boarded by, 185-86
Harley, Frederick, 169
Hart, Edward, 22, 23, 24, 26, 29
Haymarket dance hall, 50
Hearst, William Randolph,

239, 240

Herald, New York, 109
Hertha incident, 185-86
Hoffman House, 58, 239
Hohmann, George, 208, 209
Holzhauer, Coroner, 93
Horowitz, Harry, 169
Howe, William, 16, 157, 180
Hughes, Charles E., 240
Hughes, Edward B., 91, 92
Hummel, Abe, 16, 157, 158,

159, 180
Huntington, George S., 96, 98,

99

Hylan, John F., 193, 210, 229,
3 6 > 240, 241

250

Ihmsen, Max, 239

II Progresso, 233

Inquest, coroner's, in Bauman
death, 160; in deaths from
accidental gas poisoning, 20-
21; in deaths of sandhogs,
20-21; in Park Avenue rail-
road accident (1902), 73-74*
75, 76; in poisoning of Kath-
erine Adams, 29-32, 36; as
"poor man's court," 144; in
Triangle Shirtwaist factory
fire, 209; in Wolter case, 98-99

Irving, Henry, 59

Jackson, John J. ("Mr. Wil-
son"), 215, 2l6, 220, 223

Jackson, Moses, 146-51
Jerome, William Travers, 34,

6 9> 77 ?8 i49> 150* 1 5 1 *5**
*53> 154. *73> i87> 234
Jones, Charles, 37, 39, 41, 43,

44*45

Journal, New York, on elimi-
nation of streetcars, 117

Keenan, Anna Marie, see King,

Dot
Keenan, Catherine, 216, 217,

218, 224

Keenan, Francis, 222
Kennedy, Jacqueline Bouvier,

64

Kennedy, John F., 64

King, Dot, Guimares supported
by, 217-18, 225; and Mitchell,
215-25 passim; murder of,
212-17, 219, 220, 221, 224

INDEX

Knickerbocker Athletic Club,

23, 25, 26, 28, 33
Knickerbocker Trust Company,

8 4

Koster fc Bial's Music Garden,

50
Kraus, Viola, 204, 205

LaDuca, Vita, 135, 138

Larkin, John H., 42

Larsen, Marie, 199, 201, 202,

203, 206
Latin-American Democratic

League, 233, 237, 239, 240
Latin-American Democratic Re-

form Union, 63, 227, 232
Latin-American League, 232
Latin-American Reform Union,

Lawyers, predatory, 154-59
LeBrun, George, P., affidavit
of, in autopsy of Rice, 43;
ancestry of, 48-59; and Bau-
man death, 159, 160, 161;
bribes offered to, 75-76, 80,
83; on capital punishment,
89-90; licensing legislation
advocated by, to reduce mo-
tor accidents, 114-16; longev-
ity of, 244-45; personal habits
of, 244-45; in politics, 60-65,
227-37, 239-42; as process
server, 56-58; and Save-A-Life
League, 120, 126, 127 ff.; as
secretary to coroners, 12 #.;
and Smith, Nelson, 51-52, 56,
57, 59, 60; streetcars opposed

Index

LeBrun, George P. (Continued)
by, as causing accidents, 116-
118; Sullivan Law fathered
by, 102, 1 06, 109-10; warning
label urged by, for poisonous
products, 118-19; youth of,
48, 49, 50, 51, 52

Legislation League for the Con-
servation of Human Life,
108, 115

Lewisohn, Walter, 204

Lexow Committee, 63

Libby, Louis, 164

Ling, Leon, 141, 142, 143

Lupo the Wolf, 134, 135

McCall, Judge, 240
McCarthy, Patrick, 181, 182
McClellan, George B., 239
McCluskey, George, 23, 24, 29
McGurk's saloon, 121-22, 123
Mclntyre, John J., 23, 25, 29,

30,31

McKinley, William, 64, 233
Madison Square Garden, old,

50, 169

Madison Square Theatre, 58
Madonia, Benedetto, identifica-
tion of, 136, 137; murder of,

i3*-33> 1 3 8
Mafia, 130-39; counterfeiters as

members of, 133, 134, 135;

vendetta by, 132, 135
Magrath, George B., 208, 209
Maguire, Dr., 99
Marrfzelle Champagne, 60
Man Inside, The* 34
Mancuso, Francis X., 242

251

Mansfield, Richard, 58

Manton, Martin T., 156, 173,
174

Marshall, James, 174, 175, 177

Mattewan, Asylum for Crimi-
nally Insane at, 69

Maxim, Hudson, 107

Medical examiner, coroner re-
placed by, 191, 192-93

Mendl, Lord, 60

Metropole Hotel, 163, 166, 167,
168, 171

Miller, George, 42

Mitchell, J. Kearsley ("Mr.
Marshall"), 215-25 passim

Mitchell, John P., 191, 193, 240

Mitchell, Mrs. John Murray, 97

Molineux, Edward L., 25

Molineux, Roland, 25, 26, 27,
28, 29, 30, 31; trial of, 32-36

Morello-Lupo-the-Wolf gang,

134. *35 137-3 8

Morgan, J. P., 223

Morgenthau, Henry, 237

Moses, Robert, 236

Moskowitz, Belle, 236

Motor accidents, and licensing
legislation, 114-16; multi-
plied by use of streetcars,
116-18

Motor Vehicle Bureau, New-
York State, 116

Muller, Frank, 168

Muller, Katchen, 96, 98, 100

Mulligan, Mr. and Mrs. Mi-
chael, 181, 182

Murphy, C. F., 231, 239

Murtha, James, 118

National Crime Commission,

111
National Save-A-Life League,

120, 126, 129

Nesbit, Evelyn, 65, 66, 68, 69
New Amsterdam Theater, 204
New York Academy of Medi-
cine, 210

New York Athletic Club, 25
New York Bar Association, 156
New York Central Railroad, 71,

7*> 73> 75 7 6 ' 77* 7 8

New York City, Chinatown in,
139-43; from Civil War to
World War I, 47-69; gang
wars in, 106-07; immigrants
in, 47-48; Mafia in, 130-39;
white slavers in, 92

Noonan, Tom, 143

Norris, Charles, 127, 128, 193-
196, 208, 209, 210, 229, 231;
autopsies performed by, 196-
199, 201, 202; in Dot King
case, 212, 213, 215, 217, 218-
219, 221; medal awarded to,
210-11; resignation offered
by, 230; Schultze contradicted
by, 202, 207

"Nymphs and Satyr" painting,

58

O'Brien, Dennis, 43

Ocean House, Far Rockaway,

53
O'Dwyer, Mayor, 242

O'Hanlon, Philip, 41, 42, 85,

87* 93; quoted, 86
Olcott, Neilson, 68, 220

INDEX

O'Malley, John Ward, 180
Oppel, Eugene, 217
O'Reilly, Daniel, 67
Oscar of the Waldorf, 58

Park Avenue tunnel, railroad
accident in (1902), 72-73, 74

Patrick, Albert T., forgery
charge against, 37, 38-39, 44;
probable innocence of, 43,
44-46; trial of, 39-42; verdict
upheld by appeals court, 43

Paul, Sam, 167

Pecora, Ferdinand, 220, 223,
225

Pendleton, W. H., 205

Penn, William, 14, 15

Petrosino, Joseph, 131, 134, 135,
136, 137, 138, 139

Petto the Ox, 135, 137, 138, 139

Phillips, David Graham, 102,
103, 104, 107

Players Club, 102

Plunkett, George Washington,
quoted, 237-38, 239

Pope, Generoso, 242

Prohibition, 244

Railroad accident, in Park Ave-
nue tunnel (1902), 72-73, 74
Rascob, John IL, 237
Reardon, Patrick, 193
Reynolds, C. T., 25
Rice, William Marsh, death of,

37^ 38, 39> 4<>' 4i' 43' 45' 4^
Ritz-Carlton Hotel, 219, 222
Rockefeller, John D., Jr., 107,

no, 228

Index

Rogers, Hugo, 242
Rogers, Laura, 23, 24, 26, 35
Roosevelt, Franklin D., 62, in,

112

Roosevelt, James, 62
Roosevelt, Theodore, 64, 83,

104, 232
Rose, Baldy Jack, 166, 167, 169,

170, 174; testimony of, at

Becker trial, 171-72
Rosenberg, Louis, 169
Rosenthal, Herman, 163, 165,

167, 168; murder of, 162, 164,

169, 170, 171
Rossmore Hotel, 234
Rothstein, Arnold, 112
Runyon, Damon, 180

Salvation Army, 129
Sandhogs, coroner's inquest in

deaths of, 20-21
Save-A-Life League, National,

120, 126, 129
Saxe, Leon, 59
Schepps, Sam, 166, 167, 168,

170, 172, 174

Schiff, Jacob H., 107, no
Scholer, Gustave, 12, 20, 72, 73,

74> 75 77 13** *54> i59 *34
Schultze, Otto, 202, 207, 208
Scott, W. D., 97
Scudi, Michael A., 241
Seligman, Isaac, no
Shapiro, William, 164, 166, 167
Sharkey, Tom, 166
Shay, Joseph, 172, 173, 174
Sigel, Elsie, murder of, 140-43
Sigel, Franz, 140

253

Sloan, Tod, 67

Smith, Alfred E., 116, 118, 235-

237
Smith, Nelson, 51, 52, 55, 56, 57,

58, 59, 60
Sothern, E. H., 58
Standard Oil Company, 78, 79,

80, 228

Steinway Hall, 59
Stokes, Edward S., 58, 187, 188
Stotesbury, Frances B., 223
Straus, Nathan, 107, 1 1 1
Streetcars, eliminated as safety

measure, 116-18
Strong, William L., 63, 64
Suicide(s), by carbolic acid, 121,
122, 123, 125; causes of, 120-
121, 126, 128, 129; under cor-
oner system, 127; in hotels,
125; by illuminating gas, 123;
imitative, 125; under medical
examiner system, 127; meth-
ods of committing, 123-25,
126; by plunging from height,
123-24, 125; prevention of,
120, 126-27, 128-29; by shoot-
ing, 123, 125; after stock mar-
ket crash (1929), 124; on
Tuesday mornings, by job-
less, 129; Warren's leaflet on,
128-29; of women, 126
Suicide Hall (McGurk's saloon),

121-22, 123

Sullivan, Jack, 167

Sullivan, Timothy D. ("Big

Tim"), 82, 86, 106, 107, 108;

speech in behalf of firearms

bill, 110-11

Sullivan Law, 102, 106, 108,
no, 111, 114, 123, 125, 219;
constitutionality of, 113

Sun, New York, 109, 160, 189

Sun Leung, 141

Swann, Edward, 200, 202

Taggart, Mr. and Mrs. John,

93
Tammany Hall, 33, 61, 63, 65,

86, 106, 189, 231, 233, 234,

235* 236, 239, 242
Tenderloin district, 16, 50
Thaw, Harry K., 65; Stanford

White murdered by, 66-67;

trial of, 68-69

Thomas, John, 215, 220, 223
Thurber, Mrs. F. B., 57
Times, New York, 109, 173,

179; on elimination of street-
cars, 117

Tombs Prison, 15, 68
Tracy, Dr., 99
Train, Arthur, 207, 208
Trapia, Francisco, 197, 198
Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire,

209
Troy, Bessie, death of, 207, 208,

209

Troy, Michael, 207, 208, 209
Tweed, Boss, 243

Union League Club, 55, 76

Vallon, Harry, 166, 167, 168,

169, 170, 174
Valsopolous, George, 199

INDEX

Vanderbilt, Cornelius, 71, 232
Vendetta, Mafia, 132, 135
von Schlegell, Victor, 204, 205

Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, old, 183
Wallstein, Leonard M., 191;

report by, 192
Wanamaker, John, 107
Wanamaker, Rodman, 241
Warren, Earl, 166
Warren, Harry Marsh, 126;
leaflet by, on suicide, 128-29
Washington Square, 56
Webber, Louis "Bridgie," 164,
166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171,
174

Whalen, Grover, 240, 241
Wheeler, Pearl, 91, 92, 95
Wheeler, Ruth, 90, 91, 92, 100;

murder of, 93-94, 101
White, Ike, 180

White, Stanford, 65, 66, 68, 69
Whitman, Charles S., no, 163,
164, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170,
172, 175, 177; as governor,
and Becker's appeal, 176; se-
cret conference with Shay,

*1 ? *74

Wilks, Matthew Astor, 56
Williams, Hamilton, 37, 38, 40,

41, 42, 46

Willis, Lloyd, 173, 174
Winterbottom, James, 82
Wisker, John M., 72, 73, 74, 77;

suicide of, 78
Wolter, Albert, 90, 91, 92, 93,

94, 101; Abner accused by,

Index 255

Wolter, Albert (Continued) Zalianos, Constantinos, 199

95-96; letters from Katchen Zoological Gardens, New York,

Muller, 96-97, 100; trial of, 180

97-100 Zucca, Antonio, 11, 12, 13, 17,

Woolworth Building, 80 22, 63, 65, 154, 159, 181, 182,

W orld, New York, 163 233